When Things Go Awry
by BlackBandit111
Summary: On the barrel ride away from Mirkwood, Bilbo's hand slips from its grip on the barrel he clutches. Slight AU. H/c. Movieverse. No slash.
1. Chapter 1

**_A/N: _Because I simply cannot believe that Bilbo managed to retain his hold on that barrel through those rapids. **

******Disclaimer: The Hobbit does not belong to me, it belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien. I do not make a profit from this, so please...don't sue me.**

* * *

_Chapter I_

The roaring of rapids drowned out the warnings of the Company as they rushed downstream, a clutter of bodies and a collection of barrels. No one could hear anyone as they were whisked along, tossed violently about like playthings in Water's excitable grip. She bashed them against rocks to test their durability as toys and their strength as mere mortals in her ultimate power, giggling when they screamed and carrying them along as far as she willed. They clenched their eyes shut and pursed their lips as if it would help with the nauseating, fast changing scenery.

Forced to duck out of the way of arrows, one Bilbo Baggins clutched desperately to the side of a barrel, fighting valiantly to maintain his grip. Water flipped him around experimentally, causing his barrel to spin and bob so violently at times his body disappeared from view altogether. Cries arose from the Company for Bilbo to hold on as they battled the enemy and Bilbo struggled to keep his head above Water as she tried to drown him.

Somewhere to his left he could faintly hear Kili's halting laughter and breathless groans. Bilbo knew the youngest of the Company had been injured- something entirely concerning in itself- but the fact that the dwarf might've actually been enjoying the heart stopping experience was embarrassing for the little being who hopelessly gurgled up a mouthful of water. _At least it wasn't stressful for one of them, _Bilbo supposed absently, narrowly avoiding slamming his side against a rock.

"Hold on, laddie!" Came a reassuring shout from someone behind the hobbit. He tried to identify the origin, but the rapids carried away the words. "We'll help ye!" Bilbo wanted to believe whoever was speaking and reply that he was doing his best, but before he managed it, another wave toppled over him.

He attempted to hold his breath as he was thrust under the water again, but before he could resurface for more air his whole right side exploded in pain.

It was in this moment the world shattered.

There was an indefinite shrill ringing in his ears and a burning in his chest as he clawed his way upwards, opening his eyes fully to see where he was going. If he could find the light he could get to the surface. Light was below him. Below him? Bubbles flew from his open mouth as something coiled in his stomach. This was definitely not right, worse than walking through Mirkwood. Light should be upwards, not downwards. Unless he was upside down?

He was upside down. He righted himself, but his limbs were heavy now, and his chest had flared to all out shriveling pain, as if his lungs were trying to collapse in on themselves. He needed to use his head and remain calm, but the only things racing through his head now were numbers, numbers of hobbits who had drowned to death over the years…

He kicked off- when had he reached the bottom? The light came closer, brighter. Bilbo could feel the air in his lungs already…

His head smashed against something hard and he let out an involuntary yelp, watching with wide eyes as the bubbles securing his survival drifted past the barrel to the air above. He tried to move but his limbs felt like jam. It was with this that his whole body flooded cold with horrible realization. He was sinking. He was going to die.

He was far more at peace with this than he thought he'd be. "You were dead the second you stepped out your doorstep, Bilbo Baggins," his Baggins side told him smartly.

"Drowning is nice. Better than incineration, that's for sure. Besides, you had an adventure! The Tooks would be proud," his Took side commented.

He wondered if the Company would miss him. Surely Bofur, Bombur, Balin, Kili and even Fili would miss him dearly, for they were easily his closest friends in the Company. He and Thorin had parted on good terms though, and some part of him hoped that Ori might miss him, and Gandalf would be grieved by his death when he showed up. He wasn't sure why he was thinking these things, but his vision was fading and he thrashed once more in a sad attempt to become buoyant-

a strong hand grabbed his collar and hauled him up, smacking him onto the edge of their barrel. "Y'alright there, Bilbo?!" Bofur shouted over the roaring. Bilbo coughed up ungodly amounts of water before offering Bofur a weak smile. "Thatta' burglar!"

He slouched where he hung off the barrel, mindful of the battle still going on around him. He was alive. He was alive, but not out of dangerous waters yet- the battle was still going on, there were still river rocks all over the place hidden just beneath the water's churning foam, and the battle with the orcs in which he could be no help was still going on, so he paid no mind. He allowed himself to relax from his rigid posture- Bofur had him by the forearm, meaning he wasn't going to allow Bilbo to-

An arrow shaft planted itself firmly in front of Bilbo's nose and just missed Bofur's exposed hand. Bofur hissed and retracted it, forgetting momentarily about his little companion, who gave a little cry as he found himself swept away, startled by the arrow's proximity into letting go of his transport. Sucked into the murky depths, Bilbo twisted and writhed as he tried to free himself from the current and return to the surface, but Water was patient and persistent. She kept him sternly held in her grasp as he screamed, slamming his left shoulder into a jutting rock and letting out what would've been a guttural scream as his limb was yanked viciously from its socket. Bubbles escaped his open mouth. Before he could observe this, his back slammed into yet another rock, causing any and all air he may have had left in his lungs to abandon him. He curled in on himself as he tumbled through the waves, praying for some sort of miracle or death, death to end this horror. His Took side was wrong. Drowning was quite painful.

His right arm managed to be pulled from where it was tucked safely against his ribs just as an upcoming rock found its mark, and two things happened in unison: Bilbo's arm gave a sickening noise even underwater and went completely and utterly numb, and the back of his head smashed into another sharp rock. He didn't have time to attempt to swim to the surface or to escape the spindly fingers of darkness that entangled him in their arms, nor the terror as it swiftly covered him like a blanket that stifled him. All went black.

* * *

Thorin only caught the faintest glimpse of honey colored curls bobbing in the water before Bofur's scream reached his ears: "_Catch him, Thorin!"_

Without a second's hesitation Thorin plunged his hand into the freezing waters, mindless of the battle around him. His hand grasped at nothing but rushing water for a few precious moments that Thorin did not have time to spare, before the tips of his fingers found soft, limp locks. He fisted them and gave an almighty pull, feeling the water swish around a small body. His other hand found the scruff of a shirt collar and he grabbed that instead, preferring to leave his burglar's unruly hair in his head. Lifting his little friend up and out of the water with a swiftness that belied his exhaustion, Thorin Oakenshield did his best to fold his burglar's feet into the barrel and against his body.

Thorin tucked the little hobbit under his arms and stood as well as he could, whirling his sword over his head in an attempt to defend himself from the oncoming attacks from the orcs. "He alright, Thorin?!" Balin yelled from over his shoulder, and Thorin did his best to nod gruffly back, preoccupied.

The orcs were closing in dangerously before the two elves appeared from nowhere, firing arrow after arrow into the enemy. As much as Thorin hated elves, he couldn't help the little sigh that escaped him at the thought of no longer being pursued, if only for the moment. He breathed a little deeper and focused on the little creature in his arms, limp and silent. Something coiled in his stomach and caused a chill to creep down his spine.

He held Bilbo close to his chest in a vain attempt to keep the little being stationary. The waves rocked the barrel dangerously, testing the idea to send the little hobbit into the waters once more. Thorin swallowed and glared at the clear liquid through which they had made their escape. Thorin knew all too well the feeling of moving bones and their agony when prodded. He couldn't imagine that this barrel ride could be comfortable. He propped the curly head on his forearm, trying to keep it level to the creature's body.

A warm wetness on his arm brought him back to the present, and he stared down in a shocked form of disbelief. Blood coated his whole arm and some of his fur jacket in clumps, and as he tilted the halfling's head forward with surprising gentleness he realized that yes, it was originating from the back of Bilbo's head.

_And just when I was sure things couldn't be worse…_

There was nothing to be done about the bleeding at the moment and Bilbo was breathing, if not a little raggedly. Satisfied that his friend was quite alright for the time being despite his unconsciousness (to which Thorin felt something prick at the back of his mind, like this should set off some warning of some sort) he settled back, willing the river to guide them as far as it dared. They rode the river a little farther until it calmed significantly, Thorin calling back to his company, "as soon as you can, make for the shore!" He leaned a little to his left to coax his barrel in that direction, sparing a glance down at his injured cargo. The head wound still bled heavily, the shoulder swollen to the point of black and blue and the gentle features strained. Thorin sighed, swallowed, and focused on seering his transport.

Once his Company was collected on the shoreline, Thorin handed Bilbo off into the waiting arms of Bofur, who cradled the little creature gently as Thorin hoisted himself out of the barrel. Thorin watched as Bofur carried the halfling over to Oin, who had seated himself on a rock and already had his medical kit out. Ori lay a thick fur coat on the ground and Bofur softly placed the halfing in the middle; it seemed to make him swim in the heavy coat. Oin tsked, making a clicking sound in the back of his throat. "Master Baggins, what have you gotten yourself into?" he murmured to himself as he grabbed a cloth and a jar and dipped the cloth into the cleaning ointment. Putting the jar on the ground beside him, Oin began scraping away the blood around the head wound with exaggerated care, the wind tousling unruly curls and exposing the deep gash.

"Mister Boggins?" Kili called from where he was sat, legs outstretched and arm clutching his lower thigh. His tone was joking but it was overlying worry, the expression on his face as he peered around the dwarves to get a good look at his injured friend that of concern.

Oin turned to him and said sharply, "bind that, or it'll get infected. Fili, use the spare clothing in my bag and the ointment at my feet to clean it."

Scrambling to do as told, Fili ran to fetch the clothing and tearing was soon heard as seams were ripped apart. Oin sighed, continuing to clean Bilbo's head wound, studying the elfin face. It was grey and pinched as if he was still in pain, a crease in his brow and a small purse to his lips. Oin clenched his jaw and sighed, staring down at the shoulder wound. Even through the clothing Bilbo wore the healer could see the forming bruises.

"Someone needs to set this," Oin called out to the Company, "and I need Ori or Bombur to go find kingsfoil."

"Isn't that a weed?" Ori asked.

Oin nodded tersely, not looking up. "Yes, yes it is. You and Bombur must go find it at once. I assume you both know what it looks like?" They both nodded. "Wonderful. Now move before I make you." Oin watched their retreating figures as they melted into the trees. He turned back to Bilbo. "I suspect a concussion at the least," he announced, prodding the gash. "It's deep, but not terribly so. He really bashed himself hard." He grabbed bandages and began to snugly dress them around Bilbo's head. The honey colored curls bounced airly, refusing confinement. Oin brushed them off of his patient's forehead and fastened the bandages after four or five wraps. Satisfied, he said gruffly, "Bofur and Thorin come here; I need you to hold him down. Dwalin, set the shoulder. I need to go check on Kili."

All the occupants of the shore hustled (but did not scramble as Fili did) to do as told; Bofur grabbed Bilbo's thin ankles as Thorin placed an arm across Bilbo's torso, and another large hand came to rest on the hobbit's uninjured shoulder. Dwalin knelt by Bilbo's head, and with a gentleness that surprised most, he grasped the shoulder and quickly set it, a pop echoing around to the Company's ears. At once Bilbo whimpered and began to struggle, pulling feebly at his pinned limbs. Tears trekked their way down his cheeks and Thorin was forced to swallow. Roused from unconsciousness, Bilbo murmured, "...where…?"

"You are safe, Hobbit," Thorin said sternly, summoning his best glare. "Stay awake. Oin will be back in a moment."

Bilbo sighed, his brows creasing. "Tired." His eyelids fluttered, hazel orbs foggy. They drifted back and forth, as though he couldn't focus on just one thing. Bofur shared a concerned look with Balin.

"At least we lost the orcs," someone murmured.

"For now," Thorin called, loud enough for the whole company to hear, ignoring the Halfling's small flinch at the noise. "We can't stay here. We keep moving."

"Kili and Bilbo's injuries, Thorin," Balin whispered, long bushy brows pulled together. "They can't go on."

"I'm fine!" Kill insisted.

Oin scowled. "Yeah, I'm sure. Sit still." Kili's irritated growl could be heard from across the little clearing of stone. Satisfied, Oin moved back over to Bilbo, his surprise at seeing bleary eyes open evident on his face. "Bilbo!" He exclaimed, and the little creature winced. He lowered his volume. "Bilbo, what is your last name?"

Bilbo blinked, his brows creasing. The answer was hesitant and halting, but nonetheless correct. "B-Baggins."

Oin nodded grudgingly, inspecting the hobbit's arm. After a moment, he sighed, a rare smile sitting on his lips. "Just a bad sprain, give me a moment," he said in his overly loud voice, rummaging around until he found a swath of cloth. He began tied it around Bilbo's uninjured shoulder (for both the dislocation and sprain were on the same side), explaining, "I don't want him laying any unnecessary pressure on it, and this'll ensure that he won't hurt the dislocated one further. Besides, binding it this way will alleviate the pain of the sprain but won't aggravate any other wounds."

Bilbo had made no protest to this treatment in the last few minutes, but when Oin prodded his ribs he moaned, squirming. Oin started in surprise, blinking at the little being before repeating the action, albeit softer. Bilbo gave a little groan at the back of his throat, blinking back what Thorin was sure were little tears.

It was in this moment that the King Under the Mountain understood.

Five minutes later, after gentle prodding, nudges, and pain filled groans, Oin deemed the ribs bruised but not broken. He wrapped these too and finished just as Ori and Bombur came running back into the clearing. "We found it," they said triumphantly, and Oin smiled, crushing it and using a little river water to make it a paste. Undoing the bandage on Bilbo's head, he applied a little of this before rebinding the wound.

He stood and made his way over to Kili, doing the same for his leg. Thorin looked up at the sky, figuring they had lingered long enough. "Come on," he said gruffly, standing from his crouch at Bilbo's side and brushing off his coat. "We need to go if we're to reach the Mountain." No one protested outright, but the looks on their faces were enough. Thorin hardened his glare.

"Can you stand, Bilbo?" Bofur asked kindly, holding Bilbo's arm in both of his hands. It was a fragile thing under his touch, like if the dwarf tightened his grip, he'd break it. Bilbo took a shuddering breath.

"I can try," he answered, his voice wavering.

"You most certainly will not," Balin replied sternly. "The strength of hobbits is undoubtedly large, as is their determination, but you've nothing to prove, laddie."

The earnest response that came forth was heart wrenchingly pleading. "Leave me, then...I'll...slow you...down…"

"No!" A group of cries immediately rose from the Company, insisting. "You're fine, Bilbo!"

"I...can't move…" He replied, sounding miserable and plainly upset. "It's not like...you can...carry me…"

Without another word, Dwalin swept Bilbo up into his arms, holding him like a babe. Bilbo huffed, making the tattooed dwarf's beard move, but Dwalin only shifted so Bilbo's cheek lay against his shoulder. "Dwalin, really," he said, sounding exhausted and bleary, "I'm...I can't...I'm not-"  
"Just sleep a little longer, Master Baggins," Dwalin assured in a slightly softer tone than he usually used, "you'll feel better when you wake."

Bilbo obediently closed his eyes. Moments later, he slumped completely against the large dwarf, cheek pressing slightly into Dwalin's collarbone and face burying into Dwalin's neck. Bilbo was a lightweight even when unconscious, Dwalin noted. The little body in his arms was like that of a dwarfling.

"Well, well, well," a voice drawled from behind, and the Company froze. "What do we have here? A group of Dwarves?"

* * *

**Well, my first Hobbit fanfiction. How did I do? The next chapter should be posted sometime next week when I have the chance, and thanks for reading! Leave me a comment on your thoughts! **


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: The Hobbit does not belong to me, it belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien. I do not make a profit from this, so please...don't sue me._

_WOW. WOW GUYS. You guys are absolutely **AMAZING**! So much feedback! THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR ALL THE FOLLOWS, FAVORITES, AND REVIEWS! It's all absolutely amazing! I answered all of your comments in PMs, but to the Guests:_

_Your fan: Thank you! _

_Guest: I'm glad you're enjoying it so much!_

* * *

_Chapter II_

Dwalin slowly turned around, mindful of the little creature in his arms, and tried to look as imposing as possible. The creature that stood before them was neither elf nor orc and undecidedly friend or foe. He stood over Ori with a large arrow aimed at the younger dwarf's forehead, and Dwalin would have stepped between if it meant not sacrificing the burglar in his arms. Instead Bifur stepped between the youngest Ri brother and the man, glaring defiantly up at him.

The man cocked his head to the side and lowered his weapon marginally, an eyebrow raising. "We're just merchants travelling through and visiting our relatives in the Ironhills, nothing more," Balin piped in response to the earlier question and Dwalin clenched his jaw. The temperature seemed to drop several degrees as the man studied them all in turn, bright brown eyes narrowed.

Bilbo shifted restlessly in his arms, as if sensing the tense atmosphere, and one bright hazel eye cracked open. "Dwa...Dwalin...wha?" He muttered, sounding confused and very, very small. Dwalin only pressed the burglar closer to his body, trying to reassure him without words. The dwarf did not want to call the attention of the man to the little Halfling.

"Just merchants, you say?" The man said, his eyes flickering to the barrels still floating at the riverside and the arrows sticking out of them.

"Aye, visiting our relatives in the Ironhills," Balin repeated. "And we're just looking to make money where we can."

"I know where these barrels come from," the man responded, disregarding Balin's words, "and I know that their kingdom is nigh impossible to escape. It is no secret the hatred between dwarves and elves."

"We're just passing through," Balin insisted, and Bard hummed, making no comment.

They went to the docks, bearing the wounded gently. Convincing the man to give them a ride to Laketown was nearly impossible, the trader clinging to the fact that he had three mouths to feed and income was strained. It was in this they snared him. "We'd pay," Dwalin heard his brother say sharply, "double." Dwalin grunted. All this talking in circles was making him short tempered. It would be a hell of a lot easier to just pull out their weapons and threaten the man into giving them passage to Laketown. The only thing preventing him was Bilbo laying in his arms and the fact that the elves still held all their weapons. He couldn't risk Bilbo. He still had fists.

The human still looked unsure and it was in this that Dwalin had an idea. "We've got injured," he said quietly, loud enough to attract attention but not so to disturb Bilbo, who mumbled a little at the noise. The man looked uneasy as he stared at the little creature; Dwalin subtlely jerked Bilbo so he whimpered, a high plaintive sound escaping the cracked lips. The man's face remained impassive, but his eyes displayed just how guilty he felt leaving them here like this. To further the point, Dwalin took a little step backwards to where he knew Kili was behind him, stepping hard on the younger dwarf's foot. Kili gasped and stifled a little cry as pain shot up his leg to his arrow wound.

"Please," Balin said under his breath, pleading with the man. "We need to treat them, and we can't do that here."

The man relinquished, scowling. "Get aboard, quickly. We must go."

* * *

Bard was not a cruel man. He sympathized with these dwarves who claimed to be merchants; times were tough and food was scarce, but he _couldn't _smuggle them into Laketown. He had three dependent children relying on him, and he couldn't jeopardize them to help others. He could not afford to lose any face with the people, either, many of whom were spies for the Master of Laketown.

He counted fourteen members of their company, one dwarf carrying what he assumed was a dwarfling. As far as Bard knew the small being was a dwarf child, but he couldn't help the little doubt that crept up on him. Although this creature had the height and stature of a child, he didn't look like one. His face was far too chiseled and strained to be any age less that at least twenty, although the mops of curls laying around his face did peel the years away. He did not have any braids or beads and his face was bare of hair that he seemed to make up by the hair on his large feet.

Bard clenched his jaw and pushed away from the dock with his barrels and added cargo, all of whom settled down to play a board match of some sort. Bard focused on steering, noticing the dwarf who had been carrying the little creature wanting to settle him down somewhere. Something tugged on his heartstrings as a little whimper reached his ears and Bard called, "you, dwarf!"

Surprisingly, everyone ignored him but the dwarf he was addressing. Bard jerked his head to his right where a bundle of blankets was set out on the deck. It wasn't much, but it would do. The tattooed dwarf regarded him with a curt nod and a glare, setting down his little companion. The little one refused to let go of him, tightening his grip. The dwarf patiently (with more patience than Bard expected him to possess) pried the thin fingers off of his clothing and lay him down silently, waiting until the little thing was comfortable and half-asleep before eyeing Bard suspiciously. He summoned a mighty glare that Bard met steadily, an unhidden threat in them.

_Touch him and you deal with me._

The dwarf, after many silent seconds ticked by, retreated to the rest of his company, leaning against the side of the ship. Satisfied for the moment Bard concentrated on keeping the ship level in the winds. Something coiled in his stomach whenever he heard a little mumble or a plaintive whine, and he swallowed with difficulty. He was a father, which should not have meant anything but did in the face of such a little creature being in such pain, and Bard said loud enough for the little one next to him to hear, "Master Dwarfling, are you alright?"

The soft snuffing noise stopped abruptly, but no answer came. Bard felt something rise in his throat- concern? He glanced down to find a pair of intelligent hazel eyes- bleary with pain and glassy with tears- gazing up at him through honey colored curls. The lips were purple and the face was pale. The little thing made a small noise in the back of his throat, and Bard swallowed. "Are you alright?" He repeated, kneeling by his side. There was nothing but open Lake for about two miles so steering wasn't as much as a necessity as it was to pass time.

The creature hummed, screwing his eyes shut. "'M Bilbo," he introduced quietly, and Bard's eyebrows quirked. "Bilbo...Baggins...of the Shire. Who're you?"

Bard smiled. So not a dwarf after all. "I'm called Bard," he replied. "Are you a Halfling of the West?"

Bilbo Baggins smiled. "Yes," he confirmed, coughing a little, "But we do fondly call ourselves Hobbits instead of Halflings...My manners are usually much...better than...this...I'd bow if I...could move...which I can't...so sorry…"

Ah. So definitely not a dwarf. He had thought the tales about the halflings were just that- tales. His children would be delighted to hear that the little people were real, as they had always enjoyed such stories. "A pleasure, Bilbo Baggins," Bard said with a smile, and the Halfling grinned at him. The grin reminded Bard of the sun on the grass and flowers in bloom; bright, hopeful, innocent. He wondered if all halflings were sunny in this way or if it was just this one.

"What brings you into the company of dwarves?" Bard asked conversationally, sitting against the ship wall.

Bilbo froze, his eyes widening marginally before he had the chance to recover himself. "I...Business in the hills. Merchantry. An adventure if ever I wanted one." The answer was vague but corresponding to that of the grandfatherly dwarf.

"An adventure?"

Bilbo nodded, returning to himself. "Yes, an adventure...Was bored...lazing about in...the Shire...I s'pose…"

The hobbit's words were slurring together as he tried to form coherent sentences, and Bard figured that the small creature must have a concussion to some degree, if the bandage is anything to go by. He talked slower. "Lazing?"

Bilbo laughed. "Yeah...Lazing...'bout...nothing out of the...ordinary or else...you're...a disturber of...the peace…"

Bard couldn't help his little chuckle. "Disturber of the peace?"

"I never said...we weren't...creative…"

Bard laughed outright then, humming thoughtfully. "No," he replied, a soft smile on his face, "No you did not." Bilbo grunted, glancing down tiredly. Bard pursed his lips. "Do they hurt much?"

"No," Bilbo said, but it was a poor lie. He winced and looked down, taking slow, deliberate breaths. Bard only sighed, glancing up. Their conversation had stretched longer than he had thought and they approached the more dangerous part of the lake. Grimacing to himself, Bard turned back to Bilbo, who had clenched his jaw and shut his eyes.

"Unfortunately our conversation must come to an end," he announced quietly, and Bilbo's eyes opened slowly to look up at him, "but it was a pleasure. I hope you are well, Master Baggins."

Bilbo sighed, shutting his eyes. He looked incredibly weary. "And you also, Master Bard," he managed, but his voice was suspiciously slurred and heavy, like he was on the verge of sleep. Bard allowed himself a small smile once more before standing and taking his place at the helm, steering their boat carefully.

"Watch out!" One of the dwarves- the one with the ridiculous hat- shouted, yanking on the rope he was clinging to. The mast creaked a little in protest but Bard remained calm, navigating through the rocks with practiced ease.

"He's trying to kill us!" Another one proclaimed, pointing an accusatory finger in his direction.

Bard did not flinch, nor did he take his eyes off of the waters. "Master Dwarf," he replied steadily, "If I wanted to kill you, I would not do so here. Quickly, give me the money."

"We said we'd pay you when we reached Laketown and were given provisions," the assumed leader argued, sapphire orbs glinting dangerously, "and we will not do so before."

"You will, if you want to keep your lives," Bard responded in kind, eyes flaming. "Do it quickly, and hide yourselves. There are guards ahead." The grandfatherly dwarf made his way to the back of the ship, gently placing the coins in Bard's outstretched hand. Bard pocketed his profits, clenching his jaw. This was it. "Get in the barrels, all of you. Someone put the halfling in his own for the time being. I've an idea that just might save all of our skins."

The guards were more idiotic than they looked (and this was saying a lot) and Bard passed in and out of Laketown so often with goods it would not be suspicious if he came with more, although he had left only to retrieve barrels. He watched with analytical eyes as the old dwarf softly stirred the little being, muttering soothing words and gentle coaxes as he managed to get the hobbit to his feet. He slowly made his way to the nearest barrel and managed to get the little creature inside, but not without the aid of the larger, tattooed dwarf as both lifted Bilbo like he was barely any weight and placed him delicately inside the barrel.

Bilbo gave a small whimper, asking groggily, "wha's goin' on?"

The white haired dwarf shushed him. "It's alright Bilbo," he reassured, and Bard thought that he was the kindest in the company, "everything will be fine. Try to relax, laddie." Bilbo's eyes rolled to stare as the grandfatherly dwarf retreated to his own barrel, but was nonetheless silent once more.

They passed the guard post, the air crackling with panic and anxiety. Bard forced himself to remain calm as he exited his boat for the dock, made quick word of securing it there. He bargained with the fisherman to spare a few fish for the barrels. The man nodded with a crooked smile, clasped his hand, and accepted the coins that Bard distributed into his hand. The man seemed completely unaware of whom he was disguising, and Bard crossed his fingers behind his back as the man approached the barrel where Baggins was hidden. _Please, let him be silent, _Bard prayed.

Besides a muffled, startled cry of pain which Bard quickly masked with a cough, there was no sound except for the thumping of dead fish into a container. Bard tried to contain his tossing stomach. Surely the halfling was alright? Was an infection (dead fish didn't help such matters) worth whatever they were striving to achieve? Bard swallowed the feeling that clawed its way up his throat, forcing a smile. "Thanks," he said, and the fisherman offered a grim expression before stepping off the deck and onto the dock. Bard speedily and expertly undid the bindings, pushing off. There was a little distance to go to Laketown from here, and he couldn't resist his low mutter of, "Master Baggins, are you alright?"

A muffled whimper was his only response.

Taking a shuddering breath and praying to whoever was listening that the little halfling would escape any further harm, Bard sailed the lake painstakingly slowly. The longer the company spent smothered under dead fish the more tense Bard became.

After an unlimited amount of time that seemed to span forever, he passed through the front gates, trying to look as casual as possible. He reached into his pocket and around the coins, wincing as they jingled when they rubbed together, fetching out his paper that ensured his access into the town. He handed it to the bridge watcher, who smiled at him and stamped it. "All good to go," he said fondly, reaching to hand it back to the bowman.

The crinkling of paper was the only warning they got before a nasally voice said, "not...so...fast." Bard took a deep breath, willing his temper to stop bubbling. The Master's Pet always managed to set his nerves on edge. "It says here that you're bringing back empty barrels from the Elven Kingdom," Alfrid spoke again, warted nose crinkling and cracked lips going lower on his face, "but these barrels," he gestured to the barrels on the boat that were filled with fish, "are not empty, are there?"

Bard tried for a "what can you do" expression, shrugging. He put on his best good natured look. "The people are starving," he said, and the Master's pet raised his eyebrows.

"But this is unauthorized."

The guards materialized (literally out of nowhere- how could they simply be everywhere at the wrong times) and looked to their commander for their orders. "Dump the fish into the lake," he commanded as the guards stepped onto his boat. Bard felt fire coarse through his veins and he fought to stay calm.

"The people are going hungry!" Bard protested, eyeing the fish warily as the guards struggled to tilt the barrels over the side. A couple of fish began to flop into the icy waters below and Bard tensed.

"Not my problem," Alfrid replied, a smug sort of a smirk laying lazily across his lips. Bard took a deep breath, trying not to look jumpy. More fish made plopping sounds as they tumbled into the lake.

"And when the people learn that the Master is dumping fish back into the lake while his people starve?" Bard said, his brows quirking and his lips twisting bitterly, "when the rioting starts?" His eyes narrowed into little slits, whereas the servant's eyes were blown wide, "will it be your problem then?"

Alfrid's face scrunched in on itself, the brows furrowing as his expression turned ugly, before raising a hand. "Stop," he ordered, keeping his glaring pale eyes locked on the bowman. "Always the people's liberator, eh, Bard?" He sneered, but Bard smiled. The rat retreated with his guards back into the shadows.

The normal bridge watchman had watched all this through wide eyes, but now he gave Bard a friendly smile. "Lift the gate!" He called, raising a hand in farewell as Bard passed under the now open gate into the town that waited within.

* * *

_Okey dokey! That's it! Next chapter should be posted next week sometime and thank you so much for all the feedback! Leave me a comment on your thoughts and thanks for reading!_


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: The Hobbit does not belong to me, it belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien. I don't profit from this, so please...don't sue me._

_I appreciate all of the follows, favorites, and of course reviews that you've given me. It means so much to me and I'm so grateful to all, especially to all those who have left reviews. I just want to say something._

_Chapter III_

"Quickly now," Bard said urgently, tipping the barrels over and helping the dwarves out of them, "we need to move. This town is watched." The tattooed dwarf glared and refused help, growling something incomprehensible at Bard, who ignored him. Bard tipped over the last barrel and fish came spilling out onto the deck followed by a very cold, shivering Bilbo Baggins. He didn't move.

"Master Baggins?" Bard asked, trying to sound soft when all he sounded was alarmed, "we need to go. You need to get up." Bilbo didn't reply, the small tremors still wracking his body. Bard clenched his jaw and lifted Baggins into his arms like a babe, supporting the hobbit half his size in his arms as he paid off the dock manager. "You didn't see anything," he told the man quietly, eyes intense. "We were never here. But you can have the fish for free." The man barely had the time to nod mutely before Bard was off, swishing away and guiding his dwarven cargo through the backstreets of Laketown. He avoided the crowds and markets best he could, only pausing to snag a blanket off of a clothes line to wrap it around Bilbo's shivering frame. It served to disguise and to warm him.

They jumped over crates and slinked around buildings, trying their best to be silent. Bard pressed Bilbo's body closer to his chest, hoping his body warmth would help. The shudders hadn't abated since they'd been freed from the barrels. Bilbo took a stuttering breath, pressing his face into the side of Bard's exposed neck. Bard gave a small, quiet exclamation as he felt for the first time the heat of the halfling's forehead.

"Da!" The voice of his son brought him out of his musings and he turned sharply, seeing Bain. His son's eyes were blown wide, blue eyes startled and slightly fearful. His brows were furrowed and his face was pale. "They're watching," he told Bard quietly, his voice having an edge to it, "they're watchin' the house." Bain's eyes merely flickered over the rest of the dwarves, but came to rest at the being in Bard's arms. "Da," he asked, brows furrowing further, "what-"

"Nevermind," Bard dismissed, shifting the halfling marginally in his arms to take the blanket and use it like a hood over the curly head, "nevermind." He turned to the dwarves, all of whom were looking startled. The youngest- Kili, if Bard had heard correctly- looked pale and frightened, his eyes wide and his face gaunt. "Go below, and climb into the plumbing system*. They won't see you if you move along from down there- the sewer is only a block back the way we came, in a little alleyway. Make you way back here, and Bain will let you in from the bottom of the house. The halfling is too sick to do so, I'll have to take him in through the front with me."

"How can we trust you?" One dwarf said darkly. Bain looked to his father, wide eyed.

"Because, Master Dwarf," Bard replied evenly, holding the gaze, "you don't have another option." He didn't stand around to wait for the response, instead turning and saying quietly to his son, "pretend that this halfling is your little sister and say that you had left with her if they inquire. Don't look startled or scared. They can't catch us if we don't give ourselves away, alright?"

Bain nodded, eyes still impossibly wide. Bard leaned towards the ground, scuffing mud up with his boot and coating the blanket in it until he was sure it was thoroughly dirty. Taking a deep breath, he tried to appear reassuring for his son. "Okay," he said, nodding forward, "come on. Let's go."

He went around the side of the house, grabbing a clementine in his fist that wasn't holding the blanket securely around Bilbo. Bilbo's head lolled. Ignoring the spark of concern that rose in him, Bard slowly made his way up the steps; Bain pressed so close to him that he could feel his son's body heat. "Oi," he called to the two "fishermen" sitting in the boat outside his house. He tossed one of them the clementine. "Tell the Master I'm done for the day," he said easily, going to open his door.

"Wait!" One of them said, and he could feel Bain's fear crackle through the air, "what's that you're holding?"

Bard smiled good naturedly. "My smallest daughter," he said. "She's sick and came to see me back. I'm going to have to wash this blanket at least twice." He tried to throw in a bit of humor, making his tone light and agreeable. The man narrowed his eyes but did not question this explanation, so Bard opened his door and went inside.

"Da!" His youngest cried, a bright smile lighting her face as she went to hug him, "I missed you!" She was hindered by the little being in his arms and he smiled apologetically at her.

"In a moment, Sweetheart," he said, laying the hobbit down on the spare bed after abandoning the blanket to the floor. "Go let them in," he instructed Bain, who scrambled to do as told. "Sigrid, get me blankets and fresh water and put a pot over the fire with broth. Tilda, I need you to stay down and away from the windows." He spared a moment to kiss his youngest daughter on the head and give her a tight hug.

His daughter pulled away, a question in her eyes as they flickered to the bed. "Da?"

"I'll explain in a moment," he responded, attention turning to Sigrid as she returned with blankets and some older clothing. He smiled appreciatively and began to disrobe Bilbo, being mindful of the bandaged wounds. Sigrid set more bandages on the nightstand and a pail of fresh, clear water, rushing to the fireplace with a pot. Bilbo moaned as Bard tugged too hard (as soft as his hand was, featherlight and barely pressing) on his injured shoulder. What he exposed when the soaked tunic, overcoat and bandages were peeled away was breathtaking in its horror.

"Sigrid," he called over his shoulder, eyes wide and unblinking as he didn't turn away, "add hot washcloths to another pot. We're going to need them." Sigrid didn't ask for an explanation, just doing as she was told.

The mottle of green, purple, and blue blended bruises was a splatter of color on the pale, silky skin. The halfling's chest was as bare as his face and his ribs were visible under the incredible purple blots that signified the bruised bone. He had clearly lost a lot of weight on the journey to wherever they were going; the apparent tumble he had taken had not helped. Bilbo shifted, still unconscious, his hand flying up and hovering over his shoulder, afraid to touch but the pain unbearable. Bard swallowed, blinked a few times and resumed his work, rewrapping the injury to his arm but leaving the chest and shoulder bare for the time being.

He replaced the cold, soaking trousers with new dry ones and put socks over the hobbit's cut feet. Bard's eyebrows drew together when he was reminded of the absence of shoes, but Tilda passed over the hot cloths, distracting him. "Thank you," he muttered to his youngest, who nodded and pursed her lips.

He gingerly laid the hot cloths over the inflamed, swollen shoulder, ignoring Bilbo's flinch to his best ability. He placed more hot cloths along Bilbo's ribs, hoping they would help with the swelling and due something to warm the hobbit. Just as he was doing this, thirteen dwarves came clomping up his steps, their eyes falling to their little companion. "Bilbo!" The one with the ridiculous hat cried, rushing forward to cup the halfling's little cheek. The dwarf lifted Bilbo's head to check it, undoing the bloody bandages to check the gash underneath.

"Is he going to be alright?" A smaller dwarf asked, eyes shining with something deep in their depths. "He's so pale but his cheeks are so flush."

Bard paused in his observation of the scratches adorning Bilbo's body to study the elfin face. It was true; the halfling's face was as stark white as his new bandages besides the cheeks, which were an angry apple red. His lips parted slightly as pained gasps escaped. Deep purple circles lay under his eyes. Bard lay a gentle palm against the halfling's forehead and the heat radiating from there made him cringe. Hissing through his teeth, Bard ignored the dwarves standing about, saying, "I need to run out. He needs medicine and rest. His fever is climbing and I do not have the correct herbs to lower it. I fear his wounds may become infected, especially that head wound. I'll be back."

He turned to his little Tilda, gripping her shoulders. "If anyone comes knocking, I need you to hide him." He gestured to Bilbo.

Tilda's eyes widened. "Hide him?"

"Yes, Darling," Bard said, brushing her hair behind her ear, "hide him. No one is supposed to know he's here. It'll be like hide and seek without the counting. When they leave, you need to seek him."

"But Da," she protested, "he's hurt!"

Bard released a huffy, tired laugh. "Yes," he agreed, eyes flickering to Bilbo against his will, "he's very hurt. But we need to keep him safe. And if people do come to the house, I need you to pretend to be sick. Okay?"

Tilda cocked her head to the side, little eyebrows furrowed. "Pretend?"

Bard smiled, nodding. "Yes Sweetheart, pretend. Can you do that for me?"

Tilda seemed to consider his question a moment before she nodded. "Act sick like what? Like coughing and sneezing?"

Bard swallowed, glancing outside. It was going to be dark soon, the sun already setting over the Misty Mountains in the distance. "Yes. Exactly." He kissed her forehead, brushing some hair back. "I love you, and I know you can do this for Da, can't you?"

Tilda nodded determinedly. "Come back soon, Da."

Bard turned to Bain. "You know the house is being watched," he murmured. "Make sure they don't leave or do anything rash. I'll be back soon." When Bain nodded, Bard turned to his eldest daughter. "Take care of him?" He asked quietly and Sigrid smiled.

"Of course, Da."

Bard donned his coat and spared one last look at his family, Bilbo and the dwarves, saying, "remember; we're only caught if we give ourselves away."

Then he opened the front door.

* * *

Pain. He was in pain. His shoulder burned and his head pounded and his arm ached. There was a fire all along his body but a freeze in his veins like he'd never known. He tried to take a deep breath but found his breathing was obscured. Everything felt fuzzy, out of focus. He strained his memory in an attempt to remember what had happened in last few hours leading to his unconsciousness... if he had been unconscious at all. He wasn't really sure. But he had to have been knocked out in order to wake up. Or was he awake the whole time and merely getting lost in thought?

His back ached something terrible, like he had been bent the wrong way and kept in that position for a while. He tried to slowly stretch to alleviate the pain, but when he moved the fire spread to his shoulder. He attempted to stifle the moan that clawed its way out of his mouth. Moving was a bad idea. He should just lie-or sit, whatever he was doing at the moment- quietly. Perhaps it would help.

He had no idea where he was. He took a deep breath and went to open his eyes, but they felt incredibly heavy, like he was settled between exhaustion and awareness. He wasn't awake enough to actually move all that much, but sleep hadn't carried away the pain of his injuries, either. Injuries? How many did he have? Where? He couldn't tell. His whole body throbbed in time of his heartbeat.

He tried to swallow but his throat was too dry. He was hot. Too hot. Trying to kick off the covers, he growled, but to his surprise it sounded high and plaintive and rather like a whine. "Are you awake?" A voice asked, but Bilbo couldn't make out the tone or the speaker so he didn't reply. "You are. Thank Mahal. Here, hand me the broth, see if we can't get him to eat something."

Eating something sounded entirely impossible, his stomach flipping in protest. He felt something hover over his lips and jerked his head, only to have stars explode in front of his eyes. "Don't move! You'll aggravate your head. You've a nasty gash." The voice was still unidentifiable and Bilbo was too tired to try to decipher whether the tone was soothing or harsh. He did not know if this was friend or foe.

The reality of his situation hit him like a ton of bricks. He was alone, that much was certain- alone with the pain, perhaps in the hands of enemies, trying to be fed something against his will. The Company wouldn't do that- they wouldn't make him eat something when clearly he was nauseous and unwell. They wouldn't.

So he was in enemy hands.

His blood ran cold and he felt his face pale. This meant the food was probably poisoned or the like and the enemy had probably tortured him for information- that was this pain, this all consuming pain that ravaged his body. He had said nothing, of this he was sure. The pain was far too intense if he had said something to betray his friends (which he would have tried to prevent to the last fibre of his being- he was determined and strong when he needed to be, and this was one of those times). If they were trying to feed him (and it wasn't poisoned, but that was unlikely) it meant that whoever had him captive was probably trying to get him to physically recover so that he didn't die and they didn't lose information (which meant he hadn't said anything, if he had been tortured to the point of physically needing to recuperate at the enemy's hand).

Relief flooded his senses. He hadn't said anything. Thank Eru. He couldn't remember anything about how he had gotten here or where the Company was (which meant he had been tortured silly, which for some unknown reason made him want to hysterically laugh, although there wasn't anything humorous about it). On one hand, he could be concerned at his lack of memory, but on the other, he could be grateful he couldn't remember an ounce of the torture. He wasn't sure which to be at the moment.

The spoon was back at his lips, but he pursed them. He refused to submit and be tortured until he broke; if that meant starving to death, it meant starving to death. He would rather die than betray his friends. "Come on," the creature (orc? Elf?) grunted and Bilbo could detect annoyance. He resisted the urge to smirk.

"You…" he choked, and the sounds (he hadn't realized there had been noise) stopped around him abruptly and he could sense many gazes upon him. "You...are going to r-regret...th-this-this...I know...D-d-d-dwar-ves wh-o would b-be hap-py to beat...you all...senseless...They'll f-find...m-me...You best w-w-watch yoursel-ves…."

The room was silent for a moment and Bilbo wasn't sure what to make of it. Were his captors fetching more torture tools? Laughing silently? Taking his threat seriously? It was true. The dwarves would find him (if they weren't already captured too, but if these people are torturing him for information, Bilbo doubts they've been found). They'd track him down and kill all of the people keeping him prisoner and they'd go to the mountain and...and…

He was so tired. He couldn't let them see. He couldn't let them see he was as weak as he was.

"Oh Mahal, he's really out of it," someone said to his right. Silence followed.

"Bilbo?" A quiet voice said to his left. Oh Eru. They knew his name. What else had he told them? "Bilbo, it's us," the voice said and he felt a hand on his curls. He jerked his head away, but the hand remained. "Bilbo, it's Bofur." They knew Bofur's name, too. Oh no. Oh no.

White light filled his vision and the spoon pressed insistently against his lips. Again, he resisted, struggling against the hand at his shoulder (the shoulder that didn't burn, thank the Eru. He didn't know if he could take that.) "He's going to hurt himself, someone-hold him, he's going-"

Arms wrapped around him, squeezing, too tight-

He gasped for breath and struck out with his fists, a satisfying smack coming from this. His fingers felt numb. Something pressed against his chest gently and he was against something warm and soft. "Relax," the person that was holding him said, "relax. It's alright. You're safe. You're safe." Bilbo tried to resist, but he found himself held fast. Moving ached; his whole body was on fire; he couldn't breathe; he couldn't breathe. "You're alright. Relax."

Despite himself, he found his body betraying him. His limbs slowly went limp, his arms falling to his sides. Something rubbed up and down his biceps, soothing the aggravated muscles. Darkness pressed at the edges of his vision though he was sure his eyes had remained closed the entire time. Something ran through his curls again, but instead of feeling threatening, it felt tender. "You're alright."

He didn't know who his saviour was, for clearly he had been saved somehow, but he managed a little grunt at the back of his throat. "Yes. You're safe. You're alright." His back began to vibrate as a small humming noise came from above him. "You're alright."

And so he closed his eyes.

* * *

_Well, Bilbo's POV finally! I hope I did him justice. I figured since he was so clever he was prone to overthinking things, and since he couldn't remember what happened I thought he might assume to be in "Enemy hands". The next chapter should be posted sometime in the next week- probably Wednesday, if it is fully written by then. If not than it will posted that Friday. _

_As always, thank you for reading and please, please leave me a comment! _


	4. Chapter 4

**Well, here we are! The next installment! I hope you enjoy this chapter and thank you all so much for all the feedback, favorites and follows! **

**emjeanie: Thank you! I'm glad!**

**Guest: I'm pleased you're enjoying it so much!**

**v: Here's the next chapter and thanks for your review!**

**Debbie: Ah! Thank you! :D**

**Alexandra camba: Here it is! Sorry for the wait!**

**Guest: I think that might be one of the best reviews I've ever gotten. If you're enjoying Fatherly Bard than you're going to absolutely love this chapter. Thank you! It's my first time writing all of them so it's a little...worrisome, so I'm glad I'm doing alright! Bofur is definitely going to have his own section in here somewhere, I just can't determine where...Aw, thank you! I don't have a problem with slash, but I do prefer a good brotherly/fatherly fanfiction when I get one. Thanks! I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

* * *

The whole room was quiet as Fili gently rocked Bilbo back and forth, humming under his breath. Bilbo's face grew lax as he sank into slumber, his brows relaxing and face unpinching. Fili continued, holding Bilbo close to his chest. At the startled looks from the Company, Fili explained in a whisper, "my mother always used to do this after Kee or I had a nightmare. She'd just mutter nonsense words until we'd fall back asleep. I thought it was worth a try." Fili shrugged, a soft smile on his face. It seemed to the dwarves who knew Dis that this was extremely out of character for the fierce lady, but they held their tongues, not willing to state anything against the her lest she somehow sense this.

Sigrid took back the bowl of broth from Bofur's hands, setting it down near the fire. If the halfling woke up and was up to eating then, she figured it might as well remain warm. Balin prodded gently at his bruising eye. Bilbo had lashed out and struck the nearest thing which so happened to be the elderly dwarf's face. Catching Thorin's eye, Balin smiled. "At least he missed my nose," he said with a grin, but Thorin's posture remained stiff and tense.

A knock at the door made them all freeze.

"Quick," Bard's son Bain whispered, gesturing for them to hurry downstairs. "Get downstairs and try not to make any noise. I'll tell you when it's safe to come up."

They all hustled down the stairs, trying to make the least noise as possible. Fili lifted Bilbo into his arms as the knock persistently came again, louder. Bain urged the blonde haired dwarf down the stairs with the little creature, who moaned softly at being jostled so, but Tilda covered it with a convincing cough. She shot Sigrid a frightened look before laying on the bed where the halfling had been, her older sister throwing a blanket over the youngest sibling.

The knock came again, along with a shout of, "open up! Master's orders!"

"Coming!" Sigrid called in return, swallowing as she heard the tremble in her voice. She steeled herself. Her father was right. They were only caught if they gave themselves away. "Get the broth Bain, pretend to feed Tilda with it," she whispered and Bain did as told, perching next to his little sister and holding the spoon near her mouth.

"OPEN UP!" Someone screamed from the other side of the door and Sigrid felt her heart beat increase speed.

"Coming!" Sigrid called again, "sorry, coming!" She hustled, unlocking and opening the door. She was swept aside in moments, the guards entering with their swords out. She sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm her erratic heartbeat. They were only caught if they gave themselves away. "Gentlemen," Sigrid greeted politely, pretending that this was a normal visit from one of her friends, not the Master's cruel guards.

The three guards ignored her.

They swept the upstairs floor, eyes passing fruitfully around, as if they'd find any evidence of strange comings. Sigrid spotted the halfling's wet clothing beside the bed and made herself to look like she was checking on Tilda, sweeping the clothes all the way under the bed with her foot. The guards did not notice, too busy in their search.

"Are you done?" She asked, a little impatiently this time, "my little sister is sick and needs her rest."

The guards laughed. "We've to check the downstairs," they barked, making to go down the steps.

"NO!" Bain exclaimed, and everyone froze. Sigrid watched her brother from the corner of her eye, warning him with her eyes. Bain gulped. "We, uh," he said, stuttering, "we've had some flooding issues, and, well, it's...messy down there, if you know what I mean." The guards gave Bain a blank look so he specified. "We've...well, with the flooding, the plumbing hasn't been the best," he said, shuffling nervously. "If you want to keep those boots and capes nice, I'd suggest not going down there."

The guards dismissed his nervousness but their noses crinkled. "Ah," they said, faces paling. "Right. Well. We'll...be on our way, then."

Sigrid crossed her arms and glared at them until they were at the door again. "Have a good evening," she clipped, slamming the door and locking it. She peered outside the window for a few moments to ensure that they were truly gone before gesturing to Bain, who disappeared down the steps. He reemerged moments later, holding the halfling in his arms.

Tilda jumped up from her place on the bed, throwing back the covers. Bilbo was placed gently down, his eyes rolling behind closed eyelids. Sigrid took a deep breath. "Right," she said, wishing her voice didn't tremble like it did, "I'll get his clothes dry and a wet rag. Try to get his fever to break."

She went about doing as she said she would, reaching under the bed to retrieve the clothes and wringing a cloth out from the pail of water. She placed it against the halfling's hot forehead, pressing it there to make sure it would remain where it was.

"When's the man getting back?" The dwarf with dark hair demanded, pacing impatiently.

"Bard." Someone spoke so quietly she almost didn't hear it. Sigrid's head whipped around to stare at the halfling on the bed. His light eyes were open (if not foggy) and his eyelashes fluttered. Fever bright hazel eyes regarded those around the room drowsily, flickering from dwarves to humans. Sigrid stared at him as he blinked at her. "His...name's...Bard…"  
Sigrid smiled at him.

"How'd you know a thing like that?" The dwarf with the strange hat asked.

"I...asked him…"

Sigrid had to resist her giggle when all the dwarves looked at their feet. This moment of lucidness seemed to end for the halfling as his eyes closed and he was silent once more, but in Sigrid's opinion, the fact that he had been comprehensible at all was a good sign.

"I just wish he would be back soon," Sigrid heard a small voice say.

She sighed internally.

_Me too._

* * *

Bard scanned the stalls of the market, peering around cautiously for any sign of a vendor selling tonics or medicines. So far he had little luck; everyone that was advertising their wares today were either selling food or clothing. Glancing around, intuition told him he was being followed. He ignored this and skipped over to another dock road, searching for the local physician's house.

Knocking lightly on the door, Bard waited a moment for it open, taking the chance to truly inspect his surroundings. There were eyes on his back and the hair on the back of his neck stood straight up, but he forced himself to look unconcerned. It would do no good for the Master to discover the true reason for his unease. Before he could ponder anything any longer, the door opened.

"Master Bard," the physician greeted, "what brings you here?"

Bard smiled good naturedly, stepping inside the house. It was homely but warm, potions being brewed and ingredients hanging from the ceiling. "I'm well, but my youngest isn't," he lied and an emotion that Bard couldn't identify flickered across the healer's face, "and I wanted to know if you had anything for her."

The physician raised his eyebrows. "Well, what are her symptoms?"

"Fever, chills," Bard recalled, thinking back to Bilbo's ailments, "coughing...A couple little cuts…" _A couple of cuts is an understatement, _Bard thought sourly. _He looked like he'd been to Mordor and back._

"Cuts?" The physician asked sharply, eyes flashing.

Bard nodded. "Yes. She..slipped playing yesterday, I was told, and then fell into the lake...I was told that they cleaned the little wounds, but her shivers have not abated…"

The physician seemed to deliberately pause to contemplate this, then grunted and nodded, more to himself than Bard. Bard tried not to shuffle and roll his eyes. He needed this tonic quickly, needed to get back to his children and make sure those ridiculous dwarves didn't do anything foolish-

"This should help." Bard's thought was interrupted by the physician holding out a large vial of brown liquid, sealed at the top with a cork. "Administer it every two hours and make sure she eats something before. If not, it'll make her sick to her stomach. That should clear up in a few days." Bard nodded. The physician pushed something else into his hand. It was another vial filled with a pale yellow liquid, like the color of the sun. "And put this in the scrapes. It should ward off any more infection."

"Thank you," Bard breathed.

The physician hummed. "This...isn't for free, though," he warned, a hint at what he clearly wanted in the tone.

Bard pursed his lips. "How much?"

The physician smiled crookedly, revealing yellow, chipped teeth. "Three silver pieces."

Bard sighed, reached into his pocket and grabbed the first three coins he felt. He passed them to the physician, who watched him with wide, calculating eyes. "Have a nice day," Bard excused, pocketing the vials and striding out the door, leaving it banging open behind him.

He hurried through the streets, being mindful of the fragile glass concealed by the pockets of his coat. He made quick work of his return, able to avoid the busier streets of the markets now that he had acquired the goods he had needed. Taking the steps two at a time, he knocked gently at the door, saying, "it's me."

The door flew open.

Sigrid stood, eyes bloodshot and face pale and threw herself at him. "Da!" She said into his shirt, clinging to his worn overcoat, "it's...he's worse...I don't…"

Bard took a couple steps forward and nudged the door closed with his foot. Sigrid still clung to him, small tremors running through her body. His gaze sought Tilda and found her by the fire, prodding the halfling's formerly wet clothing. Bain was serving some sort of broth to the dwarves, who were clustered around the bed in the corner.

Bard's blood ran cold.

Bilbo writhed on the bed, his face scrunched in pain. He whimpered and muttered, curly locks clinging to his forehead due to sweat. He gripped at the sheets and his legs kicked out as if he was fighting off some invisible foe. The dwarf Kili, who was seated in one of the kitchen chairs, caught his stare and said, sounding rather frightened and incredibly young, "he's been like this a little while, now- we can't wake him, and everytime we try to get near him he strikes out. I think he's having a nightmare, because sometimes he mutters something that we can make out, but really it's just nonsense, I think."

Bard crossed the room in three swift strides, kneeling at Bilbo's bedside. He knew how to comfort one in the throes of a nightmare but was unsure if his touch would be welcomed. Deciding anything was better for the halfling than this, he gently wrapped his hand around Bilbo's tiny wrist, who abruptly began trying to pull away. "Don't- touch- me!"

Bard hesitated a moment before he released him, instead reaching over and grabbing both his upper arms. Bilbo whimpered when he gripped the injured shoulder a little harshly and Bard attempted to ignore the ache in his chest at the sound. It was so high and plaintive that Bard wondered what exactly Bilbo believed was going on. "Master Baggins," he said quietly, but Bilbo struggled, making little huffing sounds, almost like he was frustrated. "Master Baggins. It's Bard. You're here, in my house." No response came forth. "Halfling," he called, minding his voice should the guards posted outside hear him. There was no response. "Bilbo!"

Bilbo's eyes snapped open, blearily gazing around at the people assembled by him. They were blown huge in alarm, looking more green than brown at the moment and bright with something buried in their depths. They swept quickly over the company but did not see friends.

Bard couldn't seem to wrench his eyes away from the poor creature, who seemed so incredibly small at the moment. His breath hitched.

"Before," the grandfatherly dwarf murmured to Bard, "he thought he was captured by someone. Threatened to have a company of dwarves 'beat them senseless' once they found him. I think he's well and truly out of it." He paused. "He was lucid a little, before. Told us your name."

Bilbo didn't seem to want to move much at the moment and Bard seized the opportunity. He swallowed, numb fingers going to fetch the vials of medicine from his pockets. The leader, the dark haired dwarf, spotted this and his dark blue orbs lightened fractionally. "You found the medicine, then?" He said more than asked, face intense but not dark.

Bard nodded. "Every two hours fed from the brown one," he explained. "The other one is for the infection."

The leader nodded, crossing his arms. "Fetch me a cloth?" He ordered, though it was phrased like a question. Sigrid was quick to hand him one before her hands returned to clutching her face. The dwarf grunted in thanks, large fingers wrapping around the little vial and popping the cork off, setting it on the table. He placed the cloth on the vial and tilted it, effectively drenching the cloth in the medicine. Gently- more gentle than Bard had even thought to expect from him- the large, stern looking dwarf began to lightly dabbing the head gash.

Bilbo made no response to this, his gaze flickering to rest on Thorin. Thorin's own sky blue eyes found their way to Bilbo's and they held the halfling's stare levelly, unblinkingly. Bilbo only let out a little breath that couldn't be described as a sigh nor a huff.

A couple other dwarves followed suit, the one with the strange hat- Bofur- taking a cloth and repeating the action as well as the blonde did, lightly pressing wherever they found an inflamed scrape or cut. Bard watched with wide eyes, only tearing his eyes away to get a small cup and retrieve the bowl of broth that was set by the fire. Taking a seat on the bed, he softly propped Bilbo's back against the wall.

Bilbo's head rolled but his eyes were open. "We've tried feedin' him," Bofur said, brows creased, "but he refused to take even a bite. Thought someone had captured him, no doubt."

Bard gently prodded Bilbo's uninjured shoulder to get his attention. Foggy hazel eyes met his own brown ones. "You have to eat," he explained, taking care to speak slowly and haltingly, "if you want to get better. I have medicine here for you but you need to eat beforehand. Do you understand?"

Bilbo made a small noise. Bard stared into his elfin face, which was entirely lax. "Do you know who we are?" He asked, swallowing. Bilbo blinked at him.

"Ehm." He murmured, eyes struggling to focus on Bard. "Yun…"

Bard took this as a yes. Handing off the bowl to the white haired dwarf, he said, "there. Try explaining it again if he doesn't seem to understand- concussions always muddle the mind a bit, especially the one he's got. See if he'll eat then."

As he stepped back to give the dwarf some room he heard the blonde mutter to the leader: "Thorin, what'll we do? Durin's day is just a week from now. We can't delay."  
He missed Thorin's response, too caught up in his thoughts. The name Thorin sounded...and Durin…

Abruptly something sparked within him and he said stutteringly, "excuse me, I have other matters to attend to. I'll be back soon." The dwarves didn't notice his hasty exit.

* * *

Fire. His whole body was on fire.

Devilish gold eyes peered down at him, regarding him. He was bigger than anything Bilbo had ever seen, bigger than a house, almost bigger than a mountain…

"So, little thief," he taunted, eyes glinting in reflections of the gold, "you've come to steal from me? You cannot. You will never make it out alive. Your friends will not save you."

_They will_, he argued, but his mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton. He didn't seem to be able to form actually sentences, instead screaming what felt like was inside his head, although it echoed around the halls- halls? Was he in Erebor? He must be...

The dragon chuckled throatily, a rumbling that shook the entire foundation of the mountain. It bounced off of the walls and the empty cavern made it seem like Bilbo was in a tomb, not a kingdom. "Will they, now? Can they save you from beyond the grave?"

At first, he had no idea what the dragon was talking about, too scared out of his wits to think straight. But then there formed little figures that danced in front of him, but it wasn't something cheerful or joyous; they were shadows, wraiths, whispers of memory in mist...

_No,_ he choked, his heartbeat thudding in his ears. He couldn't hear anything besides the pulsing all around him. _No._

"Yes," Smaug hissed, fangs bared and huge head thrown back as he laughed. It sounded hollow and dead to Bilbo's ears.

_No! _ He wanted to scream but no sound came out. It felt as though his chest was burning, his eyes were empty, there was no light in the world, no light for the people he'd loved most were lost- Thorin's face was peaceful, more peaceful than Bilbo had ever seen...There was a mighty mountain, _Erebor_..elves and men and orcs, and dwarves, sprinkled like stark red flowers all over stained ground…drowning, he was drowning again, in the rapids…

"_More like a grocer than a burglar!"_

"_Doesn't belong here."_

"_Should just go home."_

"_Useless."_

_"Nuisance."_

"_He will never be a part of the Company…"_

Voices taunted, jeered, echoing like wind in a tunnel…

And then he was on fire; Smaug's mouth opened wide, flames spewing from deep within his throat to cover Bilbo...He was drowning, drowning in heat and fire and ash, drowning in too hot, burning gold...Gold…

Gold everywhere, hoards and piles of gold laying about, strewn carelessly... He couldn't breathe, his ribs were on fire...couldn't breathe…His head, oh Eru...He was dying...Dying in pain...Alone…

Someone was grabbing him, pulling him in different directions…Something beneath his back...voices, voices, he just wanted it to be quiet! Where was he? What was going on?!

Something tickled his face as a shape came into view. Blurred lines and fuzzy faces...

"You...eat...get...better. I...medicine...you...eat... beforehand. Do...understand?" It felt like cotton had been shoved in his ears. "Do...know...are?" He couldn't concentrate...Eru, his head…So dizzy…In...so much pain...blinding...flashes…

Was he on fire? Did he defeat the dragon? That would explain this all consuming pain and blinding light and ridiculous voices...but the voices would be celebrating...had he done something wrong? ...No...he was just...no…where was he? Who was speaking?

He felt himself being propped up and figured he should've been...but...So confused…wasn't he just sitting…? He should know where he was but he was so tired and his...head...and he was so hungry...oh Eru…

Suddenly, the world seemed to snap back into place.

He stared at an unfamiliar room, feeling like his heart had just been carved from his body. "Bilbo?" Someone's voice asked and a tremor ran through his body. The soft pad of a thumb ran over his cheek, and it was only then did he become aware of the wetness on his face, on his jaw- tears? Drool?

Something squeezed itself out of his eyes as the ceiling became blurry. Tears. "Bilbo? You're alright. You're safe."

Safe. Safe? Where was he?

Balin's huge nose and gentle face came into view. Bilbo breathed a sigh. Balin. He quickly blinked the blurriness and the fog from his eyes, examining his surroundings. He wasn't in a hall surrounded by gold, wasn't on a battlefield, wasn't...facing a giant, firebreathing dragon…Something pressed against his chest.

Startled, he looked up, only to find a spoon waiting at his lips. His stomach rumbled and only just then did he notice how _hungry _he was. He reached up to take the spoon, only to find his hand not obeying his command to rise and grab it. He looked down and stared.

His hand twitched when he tried to move it, but other than that it remained motionless. Balin's smile was, in Bilbo's opinion, sympathetic. "I know you want to do things yourself, laddie," he said, eyes crinkling at the corners, "but you're just a little weak at the moment. You'll be up and about in no time." He paused before adding, "you need to eat, though."

After a moment's hesitation Bilbo decided his hunger was more important than his pride (he had bathed in front of these dwarves, after all) and opened his mouth obligingly. He finished most of the bowl before he began to feel uncomfortably full and shook his head at Balin's full spoon, pursing his lips. "One more, lad?"

He shook his head and sensed more than heard Balin's sigh. "Alright. Here. Swallow this and then we'll let you be." Something was at his lips and, figuring it was important, he swallowed. Only to have his taste buds assaulted by bitterness.

He coughed, doing his best not to let his eyes grow teary. A cup of water was thrust at his mouth and he drank greedily, satisfying the terrible urge for water and soothing the horrible taste. At once he felt drowsy and belatedly realized that there must've been some sort of sleeping tonic in the water. He couldn't bring himself to really care at the moment. He was warm, comfortable, had a full stomach, and was surrounded by people he trusted (and there was no fire breathing dragon after him yet, so he figured this was a plus.)

Feeling warm and content, he slipped into an easy sleep.

* * *

**Alrighty then! Please tell me what you think and if you have any advice, constructive critism, or general feedback, comment! I always love when you do that. There is a cookie in it for you if you do! (: :)**


	5. Chapter 5

_Disclaimer: Don't own the Hobbit. Belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien. Don't make a profit from this._

**Okay! Hey everyone. Thanks to all the follows, favorites, and (of course) reviews! I love them, they make me feel so great. **

**Guest: Thank you! I'm so glad everyone is in character. I'm happy that I happened to throw everyone for a little loop that it was Fili. Yes, here is your Bofur chapter. (one of the few, anyway.) Finally found a way to sneak him in there. Aw, thank you! I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

**Guest: Thank you! I'm so glad!**

**And yes. Kili makes an appearance for all who are concerned for him. It's a very Kili-centric chapter if I may say so and there's a little bit of a conversation between him and an (admittedly) unlikely character. I hope you all enjoy and it puts (some) of your concerns at ease!**

* * *

_Chapter V_

"He has stockings on."

The voice penetrated through the thick silence like a knife. Eyes flew to Bombur as he shifted from side to side, chubby face pinched. Everyone blinked at him until Gloin asked, brows furrowed, "What did ye say?"

"He's got stockings on," Bombur repeated, disregarding the astonished looks that were sent his way by the Company. He pointed at Bilbo's clothed feet where, indeed, he had socks on. "That's not right. Mr. Baggins never wears stockings or boots. Why's he wearing them now?"

The company stared at one another. It was such a small thing. It was so mundane and unimportant.

The socks promptly came off.

It was an unspoken agreement that the sight that met them was more natural, better in the sense that it was ordinary. Despite Bilbo being pale (paler than usual, paler than he should have been) and the foreign clothing that he wore, he could have been sleeping at any which time during the Company's resting places on the journey. His face was usually pinched in some thought or worry but it smoothed in sleep. The littlest sense of normality seemed a comfort.

"What d'you think he's dreaming about?" Someone's voice asked.

There was silence a moment as the dwarves pondered this. "...Making tea," someone decided finally. No one bothered to find out who.

"Eating breakfast," another said. Smiles began to form on the faces of the Company as they all considered their contributions to the theories of Bilbo's dreams.

"Reading a book."

"Doing a puzzle!"

"Preparing for a walk to the market."

"Watering his garden!"

"Folding doilies!"

"_Buying more handkerchiefs!" _

The dwarves roared in laughter. A few claps echoed around the room. "Hear, hear!" Bofur cheered, grinning his trademark dimpled grin. In that moment, there was no one after them; there was no deadline; they weren't in danger of being executed for trespassing. In that moment they were just a bunch of friends gathered around making remarks at another's expense.

"Be quiet!" Sigrid hissed and the laughter ceased abruptly. Her cheeks were flushed and her blue eyes flashed. "Are you all idiots?! You're making such a ruckus at a relatively quiet house, putting us all at risk! We've kindly taken you in, treated your wounds, fed you and even clothed you, and still you put out lives in danger?! This house is being _watched!"_

Their faces fell, their mirth gone as fast as it had arrived. When she looked to their faces, unmitigated guilt met her own eyes. She softened, taking a deep breath. "Look…I apologize. That was rude of me." Not to mention that the dwarves were probably horribly angry and Bain wasn't large enough to protect her from them. Perhaps her Da might've been able to, but not Bain, nor Tilda..but she could not help the doubt that rose in her throat. _They care for their friend. Surely they are not so savage?_

The one with the hat came forth. "Nah, lass," he said, smiling at her. "It's ours. Yer right." The dwarves gaped, but the one with the hat's eyes twinkled. "We're yer guest and you've shown us into yer home. We're sorry." He nudged the one closest to him, which happened to be Dori.

"Aye, miss," he agreed, "sorry."

A chorus of apologies rose from the group and Sigrid could feel her cheeks heat up. They were kind creatures, she decided- if not a little rowdy and slightly gruff- and she was sure that whatever her Da was doing for them was for a good cause. Her Da was the kindest, wisest, and fairest person Sigrid had ever known. After her Ma...she needed that. She needed her Da. And he was there.

A little pained gasp brought her back from her thoughts; her head snapped to the side and her eyes widened. Instead of the halfling meeting her eyes it was the dark haired dwarf, pale and extremely sickly looking. He had dark circles under his eyes and his face was haggard and gaunt. He hadn't seen her, face angled downwards and hands cupped around something on his thigh.

Curiosity won over and she approached him, taking measured, slow steps. He gasped again, dark hair falling into an alabaster face. Sigrid swallowed and cleared her throat, hoping to give the dwarf a fair warning before she spoke, but he flinched harshly and cringed, pale face gleaming in the light of the torches when he looked up. She held up her hands placatingly. "Sorry," she said, feeling a blush work its way up her cheeks and to her ears. She took a deep breath. "I couldn't help but hear you...are you alright?"

He blinked at her, swallowing. "Fine," he said thickly, hands moving to hide whatever was on his thigh from her. "I'm fine."

Her brows furrowed. "Are you sure? I could-"

"'M fine!" He exclaimed and she bit her lip, purposefully looking to the side. He took a deep breath. It wavered when he exhaled. "I'm...sorry. It's just a little cut, you know, from-"

"That is not a 'little cut'!" She cried, rushing forward and wrenching his hands away. He offered little resistance, staring at her with huge orbs. She had caught a glimpse of the wound from her vantage point just behind him and it was an infuriated red, little blue veins spreading outward from it. It was a darker black as it reached the edges of where those spindly, spider web like lines ended, and above all it looked extremely painful. She didn't dare touch it, her hands dirty from cleaning and cooking, but she grabbed the clean dish rag at her waist and gently pressed it. Taking one of his blockier hands softly, she placed it against the towel and pressed a little, making him hiss and look up at her. "Keep that on it," she ordered, reclaiming her hand. "I'll get you something."

He muttered a little about her not being his mother and being able to take care of himself, but she ignored him, instead fetching the vial of yellow liquid she'd seen her Da using on the halfling. Returning to the dwarf's side, she took the towel back and soaked it in the yellow medicine, saying absently, "so...what's your name?"

The dwarf hissed when she pressed the medicine into the wound, but nonetheless, he answered. "Kili. Yours?"

Sigrid smiled. "Sigrid."

Kili grinned at her. If it wasn't so strained, Sigrid would've thought that it might've been charming in an impish sort of way. "Pretty."

She felt a blush work its way onto her cheeks despite her efforts. "Not really," she responded, ducking her head to concentrate on his wound and perhaps hide a little of her flush. The wound was still a rather angry shade of strawberry red. "My Ma named me, though."

Kili smiled, his face stretching. The little stubble on his face moved accordingly. Sigrid knew from her studies that dwarves valued their beards and hair, but she couldn't help the thought that this little five o'clock shadow suited Kili. "My Ma always joked that I was born on the side of the road," he informed her and she felt a giggle bubble in her chest. "I was always such a wild child, especially at fifty. Ah, the wonder age," he said a little wistfully, and she wasn't sure if he was trying to be amusing or was generally missing it.

"Fifty?" She questioned, curiosity rearing its head despite her slight mistrust for these strangers. (After all, one doesn't just have people come up from their plumbing and automatically trust them.) Kili was nice enough and she was tired of being ignored. "That's crazy! Dwarven ages must definitely be different than ours, because my Da isn't even fifty…"

Kili laughed. "Your men have such short lives," he observed, but instead of being insulted, Sigrid was intrigued. "We live for hundreds of years. I'm only seventy six."*

Sigrid laughed aloud now, removing the towel and beginning to wrap the gash. Kili watched her nimble fingers work absently, dark eyes flickering back and forth. "Only," she echoed softly and he chuckled.

"Well, yes."

She finished binding it and smiled at him for a few awkward, silent moments. "Where'd you get it?"

Kili pursed his lips, a grim smile stretching across. Sigrid immediately regretted asking, her heart plummeting. She liked Kili; he was a good person to chat with, and she'd been so very lonely and awkward amongst all those dwarves. "Arrow."

Desperate to change the subject, she asked, "...Are you hungry?"

His demeanor instantly changed and he grinned at her, his eyes twinkling. His face was still pale, but he looked decidedly better. "Yeah, thanks," he said. Sigrid thought his face had gained a little color. "You'd be amazed how much difference a warm meal can make than a cold one."

Sigrid went to the kitchen near the fire, asking, "and you've experienced many cold meals, have you?"

She sensed rather than saw Kili shrug. "Well, you know. Travels."

"Oh? Where to?" She inquired, grinning. She felt the spark of excitement deep in her heart twinge. "I've never been anywhere but Laketown. Is there much out there? Where've you been? I know my maps, even if I haven't been anywhere."

Kili's face twitched in amusement. "I've been...well, I was raised in the Blue Mountains," he started, "but I've been to the Shire since then, and the Misty Mountains and Mirkwood, and we're headed to Erebor. And Rivendell, with the elven folk."

"Elves?!"

Kili huffed, throwing his hands up. "Why is everyone so interested in the elves?!" He exclaimed.

Sigrid threw back her head and laughed.

* * *

Bofur took a deep breath, smoothing back Bilbo's curls again. Said hobbit curled further into himself but did not whimper at the touch, so Bofur repeated it. His friend calmed considerably but his face was still scrunched. His brows furrowed deeper. Bofur took a shuddering breath and closed his eyes, but quickly opened them. Whenever he did shut them, he saw white foam and light blue rapids; sopping wet curls and a black arrow shaft planted firmly in front of his nose. He heard the small cries of panic and pleads, and the choking sounds of Bilbo coughing up what sounded like a lung.

His companion had been struggling, Bofur knew. It had been obvious since the start of the journey, and had Bofur known that this was what would have become of him- so injured and on the brink of breaking- he would never have encouraged Bilbo to come along. Of course, being the Mad Baggins that he was, Bilbo would have followed anyway.

Bofur took the advantage of touch and felt Bilbo's forehead. It was still too warm for absolute ease, but not so that it seemed so very dangerous. That medicine was doing its work, Bofur was sure.

"It's alright, Bilbo," he murmured for Bilbo's ears only, being careful to avoid the gauze and the little pointed tip that stuck out from the white bandage. The starkness of it was a reminder of his blunder. It laughed at him. Mocked him. "You'll be fine."

Bilbo made a little noise that didn't sound unlike a mewl. Bofur sighed and sat back in his chair, unable to stop the dark feeling that crept into his heart. Durin's day was six days away and with Bilbo's condition, it didn't seem like it would be improving anytime soon. And Kili was in pain although he didn't show it- it was in the way he moved, the way he talked. Bofur wished he could take this up with Thorin (who, Mahal knows, was why Kili was being so quiet about his wound) but hadn't found the right words just yet. He didn't want to tell Thorin how to provide for his own nephews.

...But he did wonder if Thorin saw what Bofur did. Did Thorin see an innocent, unharmed nephew for the sake of their quest or did he see an injured warrior and disregard it?

Bilbo seemed alright for the time being so Bofur figured he'd check on Kili. Someone had to. In a moment of absolute tenderness that was a little foreign for him, he grabbed the blanket and pulled it gently over Bilbo's shoulders. Automatically, a delicate hand snaked up to grab the edge of it, thin fingers clutching it softly. Bofur smiled and shook his head before pushing back his stool and standing, stretching.

Walking slowly, he became aware of the low murmur of voices, one of which the tone suggested was Kili. The other was that of a woman. Curiosity winning over courtesy, he peered anxiously around in the kitchen area to find Kili seated on a bench, the young maiden Sigrid bent over his leg. Intrigued, he stood quietly, remaining unannounced for the time being.

He listened to their conversation, smiling at their slight, easygoing banter. Finding himself satisfied for some reason as he watched the capable young woman expertly treat Kili's wound, he retreated, his heart lighter than it had been in seemingly months. When he returned to Bilbo's bedside, he was surprised to find Thorin in his vacated seat.

Not usually associating himself with the dwarven king, Bofur asked, "Thorin?" Hoping to avoid any other awkward starters that he already knew the answer to. "What is the matter" was purely out of the question, as was "are you okay" (seeing as one didn't simply _ask _if _Thorin Oakenshield _was _okay._) He had not spent much time with the Company leader, preferring to befriend Bilbo instead and leaving Thorin to his isolated musings.

Said dwarf's eyes merely flickered in his direction before turning back to the prone figure on the bed. He grunted in response, so Bofur took this as encouragement to continue. "Uhm...not to be rude or anythin', but...what're you doin' here?"

Thorin's eyes stayed trailed on Bilbo, who muttered a little and shifted. Thorin reached out a hand to steady him and slowly turn him onto his back, as to not aggravate his shoulder. It was a while before he spoke. "...meaning?"

Bofur took a deep breath, trying to find the right words to explain himself. "I mean...here, with Bilbo? He's...you never seemed to…" Damn. He wished he didn't say anything at all. This was the reason he'd befriended Bilbo instead. Thorin was always so impossible to talk to.

Thorin was silent for a few, tense and awkward moments. When he spoke, it was slowly. "...He is my burglar and my responsibility. It is my fault he was hurt and mine alone."

Bofur couldn't help the scoff that passed his lips. Thorin shot him an incredibly dark look. "Your fault? Thorin, we were _escaping _the _Elven kingdom _of _Mirkwood_. We went through _rapids_. You're the one who grabbed him. You're the one who _saved_ him."

_And I'm the one who let him go_, he added silently. _If I had just clung to him none of this would be happening. If I hadn't been so unsuspecting of that goddamned arrow…_

"Yet he was out of a barrel in the first place," Thorin was speaking again. "I should have ensured he had one before we did something so ridiculous and dangerous. I should've given mine up. Such fragile creatures, halflings are."

Bofur nodded. _And so are relationships. Like the one you have with your nephews. The ones slipping through your fingers?_

Surprisingly- or perhaps not- Bofur felt heat crawl up his throat. It stung like that of annoyance. "You're not the one who let him go in the first place," he snapped, and Thorin's shocked crystal blue orbs turned to stare right through him. Bofur tried not to show his discomfort, fighting the urge to shuffle and wring his hands.

"...It wasn't your fault," Thorin finally responded, face more open than Bofur had ever seen it and eyes more ancient than he could recall. _But it is,_ he thought miserably. _I let go when he clearly was having trouble hanging on and I knew if I let go he'd be swept away, and I made a mistake. It was too bad. It's all my fault. _

"Neither is it yours," he pointed out gently instead of voicing these things., trying to withhold a smile when Thorin huffed, pushed a braid out of his face and turned back to the hobbit.

"He still sleeps," Thorin spoke softly, so quietly that Bofur strained to hear him. He had never seen Thorin like this about anyone besides his nephews- for it be revealed for Bilbo was pleasantly surprising. "Is it...normal for such an injury?"

Bofur contemplated his answer, but found only one suitable reply. "I do not know," he said finally. "I haven't much experience in these sorts. I'd ask Oin or maybe Dwalin. I'm just a toymaker."

Thorin hummed, but did not speak again. Bofur decided that this was going considerably well, and figured that it was now or never. "...What about Kili?"

It seemed to take a moment for his question to sink in, but when it did, Thorin's brow noticeably furrowed. "...Kili?"

Bofur nodded. "Aye, Kili," he said steadily. "He's awful pale from that wound, Thorin, and sickly looking. He's got a bluish hue. What about him?"

Thorin frowned. "What about him?"

Bofur huffed, throwing his hands into the air. "Well, you know! What are we going to do for him? The lad can't go on with it!"

Thorin grunted. "Kili is a tough lad."

Bofur glared at his leader, crossing his arms. "He is just that- a lad!"

Thorin stood abruptly, overturning his chair. In the light, his eyes looked black. His face pulled into a snarl. "I will not have a simple _toymaker_," he practically spit the word at Bofur, "tell me what is and what is not good for my own flesh and blood. I would see you gone." Bofur felt his cheeks cool as the blood rushed from them. Thorin's face was murderous, his brows set low and his lips set in a growl. He didn't look like the dwarven Company leader, he looked…

Mad. Absolutely, positively raving.

Bofur nodded mutely, swallowing. "Aye," he agreed weakly. "A simple toymaker should not tell a King what is good for his own nephews." He turned away, intending to retreat downstairs where the dwarves were lounging, but something whispered in the back of his mind and he glanced back. "Thorin," he said steadily, and the dwarf looked up. Bofur met his gaze steadily. "Remember who your friends are."

Before Thorin could respond, Bofur was gone.

* * *

***Don't know if this Kili's exact age, please, don't be terribly angry with me. I was estimating.**

**Okay! That's the chapter! Thanks again for reading and, as always, drop me a comment on your thoughts!**


	6. Chapter 6

**_Hello there, viewers! How are you all today? I'm having a relatively good day. I've actually got some head trauma from a bump I took skiing the other day which has jarred a little of my writer's block (at the cost of a rather large headache.) _**

**_Guest: I'm sorry it took so long for his POV but I'm glad you liked it! Aw, thank you! Lol I actually forgot about those stockings until I went back a reread, feeling like I forgot something. It made for good humor :) I did NOT know any of that, but that is so cool! Aw, thank you for your comment and I hope you like this next one!_**

* * *

_Chapter VI_

When he opened his eyes, it was to a single candle on the nightstand. It flickered delicately back and forth in a dance to non existent music. The lights were dimmed to a soft glow and all was relatively quiet, not even the snores of the dwarves to keep the night air company. He felt like he was waking at once from an extremely deep and strange sleep. Dreams had stretched on and blended together in fragments of a twisted reality. He vaguely remember thinking he was taken captive.

Speaking of which...where the hell was he?

He was in someone's house, this much was obvious. Where were the dwarves? Gandalf? Wait...that wasn't right. Gandalf had been gone some time now...Unless he came back at one point? Or perhaps not, maybe that was a dream too…

"Are you awake?" Someone queried to his right. He rapidly turned his head and regretted it, having to clench his eyes shut to ward off the vertigo attacking. Once he felt confident he wouldn't throw up what he'd eaten in...whatever amount of time, he slowly opened his eyes, finding the world blurred. Blinking rapidly, he waited until things focused enough so he could see properly. When he could, he smiled.

"Hey, Thorin."

The dwarf grunted in response but his eyes shined. They were a light sky blue. "Hey? Is that all you have to say to me?" He questioned, deep voice slow and soft. Even then, Bilbo found it a little hard to follow, having to concentrate mightily on every word to truly understand the meaning and form a reply. He wished something witty or charming would rise to his lips but only found a little gust of air. Figures. "A day he's speechless," Thorin said, eyes twinkling. "I didn't think I'd ever see it between the complaining and the fussing."

Thorin was playing with him, Bilbo knew, but he truly wished that he could think straight enough to- what was that noise?

He must've asked the last thought aloud because Thorin's face twitched. "That's the sound of concern, Burglar," he said quietly. "The rest of the Company has been very worried about you."

"It's completely silent," he pointed out.

Thorin's eyebrow twitched. "I am not deaf, Hobbit."

Bilbo felt a small smirk at his lips despite himself, but no retort came to his mind. Damn. Where was his wit when he needed it?

"What's the matter, Burglar? Responses failing you?"

And he would've said something incredibly clever and extremely smart if the world didn't decide to completely tilt at that moment. He moaned, shutting his eyes. "How's…" He vaguely remembered Kili and a leg wound which had seemed incredibly...serious...he was so tired… "...Kil...i?"

Thorin sighed, his eyes growing dark. "He's fine." Even to Bilbo's muddled mind, it seemed stiff and formal suddenly. The playful air was gone, replaced by something thick and uncomfortable. Bilbo shifted and swallowed, trying to think of what to say next. His head was a muddle of fractured thoughts and meaningless words that he couldn't string together to form sentences.

"I feel…" He swallowed. Sick. Horrible. Sore. Like he was going to throw up. Too hot. Cold. Like he was being burnt from the inside out. Uncomfortably. Sweaty. "Icky."

Of all the reasons he could have mentioned...it was that one.

Before Thorin had the chance to respond the door burst open, sending a gust of chilly air into the room.

* * *

Rushing down the steps and nearly tripping over his own coat, he ignored the Master's men and ran down the dock, boots clacking amongst every board. He couldn't bring himself to care about the guards following him at the moment or have the good sense to bring the injured halfling forth to his mind in his hurry, something rising achingly into his thoughts that he couldn't seem to banish.

_Not safe not safe not safe._

Safe for no one; not safe for his children; not safe for the halfling. The halfling...

He found himself inexplicably fond of the small creature although he had only spoken to Bard in those few moments on the boat, and even then, the little one didn't say much. He did have bright, intelligent eyes that Bard had the good sense to recognize, although he could also tell the intelligence was only used in certain situations. The way the dwarves disregarded their sick friend to the back instead of huddling around him at first also said many things, primarily that the halfling was one of them...but not by much.

Skidding to a stop, his eyes widened. Could he do this? If he was correct, could he force them out?

He thought about the sick halfling.

He thought about his children.

He continued walking.

His sedated pace served him well. The Master's guards fell back a little after he had slowed down slightly, convinced he was no longer doing anything of terrible urgency. Oh, if only they knew. What he was checking now was almost more important than anything he'd ever done (besides his wife and children, of course, but that was completely irrelevant.)

Making a swift right, he stepped deftly into a thread shop, the owner calling a friendly, "why, what brings you here in such a rush, Master Bard?" And when he didn't answer, repeated, "Bard?"

Instead of a greeting, he threw quilts and curtains over one another, looking for it- _where is it where is it where is it- _"There was a quilt," Bard said, swallowing his panic and gesturing with his hands to the spot it was. "It was right there-"

"I'm sorry, Bard, I don't kn-"

Bard ran his hands frantically over the drapings. _It has to be here has to be here has to be- _freeing one more, he came across the last one in the pile. Blowing the dust off the picture, his fingers ran over it gently, tracing the lines to the names of the heirs of Durin. Thror...Thrain…

_Thorin._

Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, the rightful King Under the Mountain.

"Holy…" He breathed, eyes wide. He was housing an heir of Durin. He was housing an heir of Durin. "I…"

"Bard," the concerned shop owner called and Bard snapped out of his reverie, blinking. "Are you alright?"

He quickly covered the tarp with the others, brushing off his hands of dust. "M'fine," he said, quickly weaving his way out of the shop. He raised an absent hand in farewell. "I'll- I'll talk to you later!"

He couldn't...He just…

He sped through the streets, mindful of his pace but not quite caring about the guards anymore. He had far more important things to deal with at the moment. He tried to avoid passerby and carts but ended up hitting them anyway, so he instead let them weave their ways around him. He couldn't care about such mundane things right now.

He took his steps two at a time, twisted the handle, and pushed open the door. He winced at the huge bang it made as it slammed into the wall behind it, eyes drifting on instinct to the bed. Bilbo Baggins stared at him with huge, glittering green eyes, pupils blown too large and cheeks too raspberry red to be healthy, but it was a sight that lifted the bowman's heart.

"You're awake," he said, voiced hushed slightly with his breathlessness. He must've been older than he thought if that run managed to leave him panting. Bilbo grinned at him, the same huge sunny one he'd given him before- like the skies were blue and the grass green and the flowers in bloom and everything was right with the world. Bard found himself smiling softly back, something that was rare for him to give anyone other than his children.

Bard's heart plummeted. Could he cast this Halfling out in cold blood? Injured, hungry, and in desperate need of help? He looked young. Older, probably, than Bard thought, but he looked so...innocent. It was in the glitter of his irises.

His eyes skipped up to look at the large dwarf, but only met his silhouette against the lighting of the stairs as he descended. Now he and the halfling were alone. Bard cleared his throat and tried not to feel like he was supposed to do something, instead resisting the temptation to completely abandon the plan that had formulated in his head.

Bilbo leaned back and wearily closed his eyes. His smile was strained. "I'm so...so dizzy," he murmured so quietly that Bard had to strain his ears to hear. "Why...am I still...dizzy…?"

Something ached in his chest and he swallowed, trying to force it back down. "You hit your head hard," he said carefully, eyes narrowing as he waited for the little creature's reaction. He didn't reply, so Bard continued. "And with such wounds, it is to be expected. You've a bad concussion, Master Baggins."

"Mm," Bilbo hummed. "Thought I tol' you to call me Bilbo?" He slurred slightly, his words blurring together. Bard hesitated, but it wasn't needed. Bilbo had already drifted to sleep again.

"Master Baggins?" He questioned quietly, creeping over to the bed. Bilbo's eyes were closed, his breathing even. His face was a little pinched, but was otherwise serene. He wasn't faking. Of course he wasn't faking. Why had Bard even considered that?

He shook his head. He couldn't risk his children. He couldn't.

_But maybe_, something traitorous whispered in the back of his mind, _the halfling could stay while the others went?_

He already knew the answer to that question though, and it was no. The hobbit wouldn't leave his friends. Not like that, anyway. If there was anything that he'd proven to the bowman in the short time he'd known the creature, it was that he was determined. When he set his mind to something, it was done. Bard doubted he'd just leave his friends when they'd come so close.

He could force the halfling to stay, he mused. Surely the dwarves wouldn't force their companion to come along and would probably encourage his staying to help the recovery. The halfling would most likely be asleep when they discussed this (perhaps they could slip something into his broth) and he'd sleep through the entire conversation. They could do the same thing for when the dwarves left and Bilbo would sleep through it, being none the wiser.

Deceit wasn't his favorite thing in the world but he certainly wasn't above it. He didn't want to teach his kids this, but it made life incredibly easier. He could get them more food, supplies, clothing. Money. They wouldn't have to save up every penny because the Master taxed them incessantly.

But was the halfling trustworthy? Bard didn't really know him and would still get into trouble if caught housing him. Bilbo could be a burglar, or a murderer. Why was he travelling with dwarves anyway? The 'business in the hills' excuse had withered away to nothing. What was the halfling doing, travelling with a son to the line of Durin?

Unless he was working for them and not just tagging along. The business in the hills really wasn't…

The world stopped.

They were going to the mountain. The Lonely Mountain. The dwarven kingdom. Erebor.

This wasn't good. This really, really wasn't good. If they opened the halls...the dragon…It would surely destroy everything in its path...including Laketown. His children.

The dwarves had to…

He didn't know what to do anymore.

He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed, crouching beside the bed and pulling the covers to Bilbo's chin. Bilbo muttered something that sounded very similar to 'thank you' before rolling over, away from Bard. As he stood, Bard noticed the slender fingers that came to grip at the blanket hem and was reminded painstakingly of Tilda. She always did that, too. How could he suspect the halfling when clearly he was innocent?

There were footsteps on the stairs as someone ascended and Bard straightened quickly, rubbing a hand over his face. When he opened his eyes, he found Sigrid. He summoned a smile, but it quickly fell when he saw the look on her face. "Sigrid, darling, what is it? You look troubled."

She shook her head, her face solemn. "It's...I met one of them, Da. A dwarf; Kili. He's...probably about my age. Maybe a little younger. I don't know. He's...very hurt, Da. I'd say he's almost as bad as Mister Baggins."

She took a deep, shuddering breath. "Da...I know it's a lot to ask, because you have done so much...but could they...they're having a rough time. They're not bad people. Can they stay? At least until they're a little...I don't know...better? Kili's leg...it was an arrow. It's all black and blue. I cleaned it and bandaged it with the stuff you got from the physician, but he looks like he's in a lot of pain. I don't think he can just...ignore it like he pretends to."

And Bard felt something coil in his stomach at her words. "I…" He hesitated only a moment before responding. "Yes. They can stay." And when she rushed forward and squeezed him around the middle tight, he knew he made the right decision.

"Thank you, Da."

He hasn't taught his children to deceit, he realized.

He's taught them compassion.

* * *

**So a bit of a shorter chapter, because adding any more seemed awkward with the ending that I have right there. Thank you for reading and please, leave me comments! They fuel the fire to my imagination and get the updates posted faster! **


	7. Chapter 7

_Hello, friends! I AM SO SORRY about this LATE post. It got away from me and things are happening in my personal life at the moment and...gah...Yep. So...I'm really sorry about that. It's sorta longer than the others though? If that helps? AND my computer is spazzing so it won't let me respond to comments in PMs unless it takes an hour, so that's why I haven't responded to comments. _

_Comments:_

_jaymzNshed: Thank you! I hope you like the chapter!_

_Kari: Thank you so much! I'm glad I'm doing alright!_

_she with the hazel eyes: You have no idea how much fun that internal crisis was to write. Honestly._

_ChucKelise: Thank you! I wanted to give Bard more personality in my story and I'm glad I've managed to do it well!_

_Alohamora Fantasy: (awesome name, first of all) Secondly: Thank you! You're so sweet! _

_Chelsagen: Thanks!_

_Syblime: Yes, he is in a bit of a pickle. I don't know if you noticed (as I keep forgetting to mention it in author's notes) but they are in Laketown for an extended period time of (currently) 4 days instead of two, to give Bilbo a little recovery time. They've been there two days already. Hope that helps and thanks for the review!_

_blueskydog: Wow, thank you! And yes, thank you for the critique- didn't realize I did that, I'll go back and change it ASAP! Thanks for the reviews!_

_Knowing Grace: Thank you! I'm glad all of the characters are in-character (if that makes sense). I always try to keep them that way. Hope you enjoy the chapter!_

_RascalKat: An author knows she's accomplished something when the reviewer talks to a character in a review. (Lol) Thank you! Yes, there is quite a bit of Kili whump coming your way and thank you for your review!_

_Guest: wow, thank you! That means so much to me! Thank you so much for your review!_

_Brasse: Here it is! Hope you enjoy and thanks for the review!_

* * *

Fili stared at his brother, his brows creased. Kili sat heavily on the floor against the staircase, too tired to move but too uncomfortable to fall asleep. His brother needed rest, Fili knew. He just didn't know how to say this to Kili without making him feel patronised.

Kili huffed, crossing his arms over his chest in what Fili assumed was an attempt to stay warm. It was chilly in the basement; about ten feet away it was exposed to open lake. There was a faded curtain separating them and the open lake so that any passerby who happened to glance into the basement weren't alarmed to find thirteen dwarves residing there.

There was a little cough and a shuffling sound as Kili slid down the side of the staircase, tilting sideways. Asleep, then. Fili sighed, purposefully ignoring how his breath misted in front of him and covered Kili gently with a blanket. At the immediate loss, goosebumps rose all over his skin- especially on his arms- but his brother needed the blanket and the warmth more, so he disregarded this.

Thorin had come down the stairs looking incredibly sour faced, lips pinched and eyes darker than night. Fili assumed he and Bilbo had had some sort of argument or falling out, but seeing as there was no shouting to have been heard and Thorin's face wasn't red like it usually was, Fili wasn't so sure. That, and Thorin wasn't heartless; he wouldn't purposefully upset Bilbo when he was so injured.

Purposefully. But he hadn't upset Bilbo by accident, either; his eyes were usually a light blue, his face less pinched and more of a deep set frown when he was regretful. These eyes were dark, Thorin's pupils blown huge.

"Uncle?" Fili queried, eyebrows raised in what he hoped seemed an open expression. Thorin turned to regard his nephew with dark eyes and a shadowed face, hair shading most of it darker than usual. Fili couldn't help the thought that Thorin looked a little...strange when he had this look.

"Fili," he said gruffly, crossing his arms over his chest, blocky hands clenching over his biceps. "What do you need?"

Fili suddenly felt like he was being suffocated, his throat closing off and not allowing him speech. "I, I," he stuttered, gasping as he tried to regain his breath, "I just wanted to see how you thought Bilbo was doing." Fili hoped that Thorin had lost the ability to sense when his nephews were lying.

Thorin's eyes narrowed and he grunted in response. "Fine. Healing steadily." He ran a hand over his face and exhaled sharply. "But slowly. We can't stay here much longer. Durin's day is in four days and we still have ways to go."

Fili's brows furrowed as he stared at Thorin, whose eyes were dark and face blank.

When he realized what Thorin was considering, his world halted and grinded to a stop. "But...Uncle, we can't _leave _him here!"

Thorin made a sound in the back of his throat. "If he's going to hold us back…"

"He's our _Burglar_!" Fili hissed, teeth bared. "We can't _leave him, _Thorin! We _can't_! We _need _him!"

"He's just a burglar," Thorin murmured, eyes flashing. "Just a halfling. We can easily-"

Fili huffed breathily, holding back a hysterical and disbelieving laugh. "_Listen to yourself! _Do you even hear what you're saying?!" Thorin's face darkened, his brows furrowing and his lip curling. "That's Mr. Baggins! That's _Bilbo! _How can you say something like that?" Fili paused, taking a deep breath. He swallowed. "That's Bilbo," he repeated, looking up at his Uncle, who stared down at him with an unreadable expression. "He's not _just _a halfling. He's not _just _a burglar."

Thorin blinked, pursing his lips. Fili huffed. "So there," he said, jaw clenching.

Thorin sighed. "Fili," he said steadily, "I can see and understand the point you're trying to make, but it's better for the whole group-"

"The whole group?" Fili interrupted, eyebrows raising. "What about Kili? Is that better for him?" He gestured to his still asleep brother and shook his head. "No, Thorin."

Thorin's whole face hardened. "Fili," he growled, "I'm the leader of this group. I appreciate your concern, but it is misplaced. Kili and the halfling are fine."

"And now it's _halfling_." Fili murmured, eyes flashing, but Thorin either didn't hear him or didn't care, because he didn't reply.

Fili glanced in Kili's direction, mouth curving into a small smile.

Bofur looked up from where he was gently covering Kili with his own coat to go on top of Fili's, sharing a look with the older sibling.

Swallowing, Fili looked away.

* * *

Bard paced, hands folded atop his head and eyes closed. He pursed his lips, exhaling softly, his steps faltering. Then, clearing his throat, he started up again, rubbing the back of his neck.

"...You're going to end up wearing a hole in the ground," a steady yet amused voice chimed, making Bard flinch slightly, eyes darting in the direction of Bilbo's bed. The halfling was sitting up, hands in his lap, a small smile curving the edges of his lips. Despite the two cherry red marks on each cheek that signified fever, he didn't look terrible. The need for a bath was evident, though.

Bard smirked. "Better to wear a hole in the ground than smell like death," he retorted, crinkling his nose.

Bilbo's face instantly morphed into that of hurt, eyebrows drawing together and lips parting as his eyes grew ever wider. They glinted a pure emerald green in the lighting. "Well Bard, I'm hurt!" He proclaimed, laying a hand dramatically over his heart. Bard's eyes narrowed at the glimmer in Bilbo's eyes. It was almost...impish. "At least I'm not the one who _looks_ like death."

"I'm not the one who's sick," Bard pointed out.

Bilbo's smirk grew. "I know."

They regarded each other for a couple silent moments, not exactly sizing each other up but not exactly completely comfortable after the exchange, either. Bard sighed, breaking the silence that had descended upon them and the tension that couldn't have been penetrated with a knife, crossing the room in five swift strides and plopping into the vacant chair by Bilbo's bedside. Absently he pressed a hand to Bilbo's forehead, which was a little too warm for ease but not hot enough to warrant alarm.

Yet.

Bilbo chuckled. "I'm not a child, you know," he informed, arching an eyebrow. Bard tried to bury the sheer incredulity of how very much Bilbo resembled a spritely, mischievous child he had denied being at the moment. "I can take care of myself."

Bard hummed, gently prodding the muscles around Bilbo's shoulder. They were taut and knotted, and barely yielded under his soft touch. Bilbo hissed through clenched teeth but said nothing. "I'm sure you can," he replied at length, leaning back from the shoulder to inspect the head wound, "especially with your small kitchen knife of a sword."

Bilbo's mouth opened and closed, his eyebrows drawing together. "...My companions call it a letter opener," he admitted, lips twisting a little into a trepid smile.

The laugh burst from Bard's mouth before he could stop it. "Do they, now?" He asked, trying in vain to stop his lip from curling upward in a smirk.

"I will never understand dwarven humor."

Bard didn't try to contain his laughter this time.

* * *

Thorin scoffed. "Listen to them," he muttered, pacing. Bilbo's chiming laughter as well as Bard's deeper baritone ones floated down the steps to the basement with ease, dancing past the listener's ears. It was a sound that lifted all of the Company's hearts...except for Thorin's. "We should be _doing _something, not sitting here, waiting to be found!"

Fili pursed his lips. "What do you propose we do, Uncle?" He queried, eyes narrowed and jaw clenched. "It's not like we can sneak to the armory and steal all their weapons."

Thorin's pacing abruptly ceased, and Fili then realized his great and irrevocable blunder. "N-no, Uncle, I didn't mean it- honest- nothing," he stuttered, wringing his hands as he watched with wide eyes. Thorin had turned his back and was now staring at the curtain separating the basement and the outside lake. Fili didn't want to think about Thorin's face, nor did he want to think about the black eyes turning would expose. "Uncle," he pleaded. "What about Bilbo?"

Thorin went stock still, hands balling into fists. Fili swallowed. "What about Kili?"

This was, apparently, the wrong this to say, as Thorin gave a mighty roar and ripped the curtain clean down.

* * *

T

Their laughter came to a screeching halt as there was a loud rumble from downstairs and a loud _shrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiip _sound, followed by many screams and yells. Bard glanced at Bilbo, his eyes flickering, unbidden, to the form on the bed- lips parted, face drained of any color it had gained, cheeks alabaster, curls stringy, eyes impossibly wide- before he fled down the stairs.

_No no no no no no-_

Why would they do this? _Were they idiots?! _ They were never going to make it out of Laketown alive now! (Neither would he nor his children, they would all die, all punished for his mistake, for listening to the whim of a child, for fooling himself into seeing innocence in injury, hoping that one son of Durin was different-)

It didn't matter now. Nothing mattered but safety, and fleeing, and saving his children. (Where would they go? Where _could _they go? It was the middle of winter. This was all his fault.)

_His fault for believing, for not seeing, for not turning them away- _

He sprinted down the stairs three at a time, skidding to a stop when he met twelve terrified faces. His gaze briefly landed on a dark haired dwarf with an ashen face- _Kili_- and his mind jumped to Sigrid. Banishing the thought, he glared at them all, like it was somehow all their fault (and it was, in a way; had they never asked him for help, never escaped the elven kingdom, he wouldn't be in this position) even though the fault lay with the one noteable dwarf who was missing.

One Thorin Oakenshield, proper King Under the Mountain.

Without bothering ask the other dwarves where he had gone, Bard dashed out the door, coat flying out behind him.

He ran frantically through the streets, stumbling blindly, bloodshot eyes darting around in search of the stocky form of the king. Growling, he shut his eyes tightly, clenching his jaw. Shaking his head and blinking furiously, he pursued onwards, banishing any and all thought to the dwarves still at his home. They weren't important. Neither was the halfling- not anymore. He needed to find the king or else he would have to just kick the injured company out onto the streets- something he would do if it proved completely necessary, but not something he truly wanted to do if he was honest with himself.

The King Under the Mountain had given him no choice. He'd have to do one or other, and the latter was considerably more likely that the former.

Something in Bard's chest constricted painfully but he swallowed, forcing the feeling down and away, to where it became a small ache. He would just have to ignore it.

Eyes studying the people around him fruitlessly, he shook his head again, a new strength filling his weary limbs. He thought of his children. He thought of Tilda's smile and Bain's wide eyes and Sigrid's arms around his waist.

He kept searching.

* * *

He was growing tired of waking to the same ceiling.

Rubbing at his eyes with a knuckled hand to rid them of the blurriness he discovered upon opening them, he blinked languishly, not quite recognizing where he was, only knowing that he had been looking at the same ceiling for quite a while. Reality seemed to snap back into place and a sharp, stabbing pain in his abdomen alerted him to a predicament. He had to _go_. Now. Right now.

He remembered Bard...and...what the hell? How had he managed to fall asleep? He only remembered laughter...

Grimacing as he moved and pressing the heel of his hand into his temple, he pushed himself up on his arms, grunting when his ribs pulled too much. He took a deep breath in through his nose, exhaling through his mouth. He did it again. Again. In, out. In, out. In, out.

This continued for a few minutes in silence, Bilbo gulping desperately to try to keep everything he had eaten in the past few days down. This sudden vertigo overwhelmed him, pouring over him and drowning him. He lay back weakly, landing against the pillows with an audible _thump_; his head pounded, his vision tilting terribly and making the room distort. Things blurred and became fuzzy outlines, forcing Bilbo to close his eyes and recite the names of all the rivers and passages he remembered in Middle Earth. When he had reached the Anduin he opened his eyes, taking a testing breath.

Nothing assaulted him when he did this and, encouraged, he attempted to sit up again. He barely managed to hoist himself over the side of the bed as he lost everything he'd eaten.

Curls plastered to his forehead and now trembling terribly, Bilbo wiped at his mouth and swiped at his cheeks, which he discovered had managed to grow quite watery without his knowledge. He hauled himself back onto the bed with a groan, laying limply against the pillows as his eyes teared from the horrid smell.

Wonderful.

He still had to go.

His eyebrows furrowed as he attempted to withhold the groan that was clawing its way up his throat. He didn't want to move. He didn't want to move. He had to move. He couldn't move.

_Well damn._

"Bilbo?" A voice said to his right (near the staircase) but Bilbo didn't respond; merely shut his eyes and tried to ignore whoever was speaking because he was so tired and did not want to have to deal with one of his friends at the moment. Not that his friends weren't social creatures and were always more polite than gruff (...most of the time. Sometimes. Not really.) Bilbo's people skills were severely lacking at the moment, too, which probably wouldn't help matters. Especially if it was Thorin.

Eru help him if that was Thorin.

Whichever dwarf had found him made no comment on the bile on the floor. Bilbo heard the clacking of boots grow faint as the dwarf moved away from him only for the sound to get louder and therefore closer to him. He kept him eyes shut, but behind his lids he could see the shadow of a small dwarf moving about, the light shifting in accordance to the dwarf's movements.

Bilbo found himself drifting in that space between dreams and wakefulness, aware if someone were to call his name but otherwise fairly dreaming. Inexplicable images languidly passed behind his eyelids, and although the sharp pain he felt in his lower stomach prevented him from sleep, he was resting, he supposed.

He found an arm behind his back suddenly and a hand cradling his head as if he were a babe, supporting him as they slowly sat him up. Bilbo blearily opened his eyes again, blinking against the cold grey light filtering in through the windows. The shadow made a small noise and Bilbo wondered if the dwarf had beforehand known he was awake.

"Mr. Baggins?"

The voice was a soft tenor and very concerned; there was a definite softness and fondness laced within the tone. Bilbo breathed a little easier.

Ori.

"Or...i…" Bilbo managed weakly, swallowing vainly. He hadn't realized it before, but his throat was sandpaper.

He needn't have said any more though, because Ori was already gently placing a clay cup against his lips. Bilbo sipped at the water gratefully, shutting his eyes and letting out a sigh when the cool water hit his burning throat. A few seconds ticked by like this, silence dominant but not uncomfortable. The water was removed once Bilbo had moved his head slightly away and to the side, unwilling to speak.

"What...happ...end?" Speaking was difficult and his tongue felt lazy, like it was refusing to obey his commands to move. He mind was sluggish, like it was trying to move through thick mud and kept getting stuck.

There was a deep breath and a noisy exhale. Bilbo could almost imagine seeing ORi wringing his hands together. The thought made his heart plummet.

"Ori?"

A shuffling sound. "I...erm…."

An alarm went off in Bilbo's mind, permeating the thick soupy fog he'd gotten himself stuck in. It dissipated, leaving Bilbo aware of just how terribly injured he'd been. His whole arm was on fire and felt very much like it was about to fall off; he didn't dare touch that or even attempt to move it. His wrist throbbed in time with his heart beat and his head left a floating sensation, somewhere between pain and numbness. Inside his head felt like the dwarves were having another feast, similar to one they had at Bag End.

His ribs were another matter entirely.

Bilbo was breathless, his uninjured arm frantically scrambling for some grip on his torso to ease the horrible, constant pain his ribs provided. It felt like with one movement his whole body would shatter.

He wanted to go home.

He wanted to go home.

Terribly.

He didn't voice this desperate ache in his chest though, instead saying, "Ori, tell me what happened."

The answer was quivering. "N-no. I'm not s-supposed t-t-to."

Bilbo resisted the urge to roll his eyes, sitting up and biting his lip so hard he tasted blood to prevent crying out. Ori was a wretched liar. "Tell me. Now."  
His tone brooked no argument.

Ori's face was alabaster, his eyes wide. Bilbo would have felt bad if he wasn't preoccupied being so concerned instead. "Well…"

"_What?!"_ Bilbo snapped, and Ori flinched, holding his hands up placatingly. Patience wasn't a virtue of Bilbo's at the moment; he'd have time to apologize and regret it later.

Ori's hands wrung harder. "The company is out looking for Thorin..." A pause. "He's...Thorin's gone." Ori informed quietly, swallowing, his face growing ashen as the color further drained from it. Bilbo almost moved aside on the bed to force his friend to sit down; he suddenly looked terribly sickly.

"Gone?" Bilbo echoed, face blank.

Ori nodded. "Gone," he confirmed with a nod.

Bilbo had one second to hate Thorin Oakenshield with all his might.

Then he started the daunting task of getting up.

* * *

_Well, there it is. Hope you enjoyed reading and thank you for being patient with this post, I promise the next one will be up faster, annnd...leave me a comment on your thoughts! _


	8. Chapter 8

**_hello, friends! Sorry about the lateness of this, but I have been able to relate a little to what our poor Bilbo has been feeling. Two Sundays ago I fell down the stairs and banged my head. That Wednesday I went to the doctor's and was diagnosed with a mild concussion. Ugh. Not fun. So I couldn't look at a computer screen for a week/ish and got the scolding of my life from my friends. (I'm accident prone. It wasn't my fault.) _**

**_Thanks to all those who commented (really, you couldn't give me my 60th?! Cruel people, making me work so hard :)) _**

**_Syblime: Things really are spiralling out of control, aren't they? Bofur tripping over the Master's boots is an entertaining thing to picture, though... :) Thanks for the review!_**

**_jaymzNshed: I know! He needs to cool down a little and get some patience. Thank you! I hope you love the chapter!_**

**_blueskydog: That really was amazingly nice. Honestly. Your review made my day :) I'm sorry you're so worried and I hope you enjoy the chapter! _**

**_Alohamora Fantasy: We Potterheads need to stick together! :D I'm glad you enjoyed the chap and I hope you like the update!_**

**_aalogan11: Hope this doesn't disappoint!_**

* * *

_Chapter VIII_

"What are you doing?" Ori demanded, brows creasing and hands reaching to push his back against the pillows again. Bilbo swiped them to the side, swallowing a grunt as his eyes narrowed.

"Getting up," he responded through gritted teeth, his grip on his ribs tightening as he pushed himself up with his arm, "what does it look like?"

And if it came out a little more clipped than Bilbo would have liked, well, that was too bad.

Ori bit his lip and grabbed Bilbo's uninjured shoulder, trying to force him back down. Bilbo glared at the scribe defiantly, a glint in his eye as his lips turned up into a snarl. "Let. Me. Up." A pause._ "Now."_

Ori's fingers trembled from where they gripped his shoulder, the touch feathery but the voice firm and determined. "No."

Getting an admittedly malicious and nasty idea, Bilbo made his breathing stutter to a stop, widening his eyes at Ori for only a moment before he allowed his arm to go limp, plummeting back to the pillows. He made his eyes roll up into his head and his breathing even out, letting his body go motionless.

He tried to ignore the increased drumming in his head, a steady beat of four.

Ori's gasp was loud, reverberating around the room. "Mr Baggins?_ Mr Baggins?!"_

His heart plummeted at the sound of Ori's voice, now panicked and louder as it rose in intensity and concern, but he didn't move, or give any sign he'd heard. There was quickened steps, shuffling sounds, and little groans here and there before- just as Bilbo had predicted- Ori retreated from the room, no doubt to get him something to drink or perhaps some smelling salts to revive him.

He swallowed hard, digging deep down into his core as though finding some inner reserved strength, thinking of Thorin and the dwarves as he pushed himself up on shaking arms. The muscles quivered, not ready for such stressful movements after days of being so stationary, but Bilbo clenched his jaw and swung his legs over the side, sitting up completely.

Immediately, the world tilted so far out of focus that Bilbo nearly threw up again, having to pause for a few moments to gain his bearings again. His headache escalated with a throbbing vengeance, as if telling him cruelly that he was not meant for such movement at this point in his recovery. Screwing up his face but opening his eyes (which proved incredibly difficult), Bilbo ignored the constant pain throughout his head, instead sucking in a deep breath.

He reached down again into his soul to wrench up some good old, hobbit-y courage, his legs trembling. Then, with what little strength he had, he pushed himself to his feet.

Lurching forwards, he landed softly (for even if he was injured, he was still graceful) on his hands and knees, shutting his eyes tightly as the world decided to flip- or perhaps now he was on his back?

Gasping, he sucked in lungfuls of precious air, trying to resist the strong urge to just throw up again. Perhaps he'd feel better…

No. No. The throw up from before had been cleaned (by Ori, no doubt) and there were still things to be done. A nutty King Under the Mountain to find. An escape to be made. A dwarven kingdom to break into. And a dragon to burglarize and kill.

Ah, the stressful to-do lists of hobbits.

Letting out a shaky exhale, Bilbo opened his eyes, ignoring the way the world swirled. He was doing this, and he was doing it now. He gulped once more, clearing his throat and thus clearing his head slightly, rising. His head throbbed.

Blinking, he gulped again, unable to swallow down the lump that had formed in his throat. He was going to do this. He was going to do this.

He exhaled slowly.

_I can do this._

Shaking fingers reached for the latch on the door, grasping it and forgetting all haste as it was impertinent to open the door quietly. He was about to open the heavy door, preparing to pull with all his might when something laying in a heap caught the corner of his eye. Turning, he saw his travel clothing, hanging innocently by the fire. Bilbo's hand dropped.

He stared at the waistcoat, swallowing. There were rocks in his throat. Did he dare? What if Ori came back?

He'd be quick, then. Dashing over and disregarding the way the world spun, Bilbo thrust long fingers into his coat pocket, grasping the sleek band of gold and yanking it out. He panted, staring at a moment, a blanket of calmness and relief descending upon him.

Placing it into his pocket Biblo stifled a groan as the dizziness made him pause again, forcing him to contain the bile that was trying to throw itself up his throat. He took a shaky breath and tried to calm down again. He had the Ring now if he needed a quick getaway.

Footsteps sounded heavily on the stairs from the basement; abandoning all senses of sneakiness and pride, Bilbo wrenched open the door, stumbling down the steps.

He paused again, shutting his eyes and taking a deep breath. That was something. He was outside and down the steps already. That was something.

He had to take this slowly, or else he was going to make himself sick again. Gritting his teeth, he took another step, ignoring the sharp flare of protest that his head gave. His arm ached and his wrist creaked with every lurch his step caused, pulling at both of them. He shut his eyes tightly, screwing up his face as he took another step. Step. Step. Step. Step.

He made a left, then two rights, not really sure where he was going or what he was looking for. Well, he was looking for Thorin- in the broadest terms- but wasn't quite sure what the signs would be. He figured he'd know when he saw it.

Limping down the street, he bit into his lip, trying to desperately support both his pride and his body by not crying out and to continue walking. This was a bad idea. A bad idea, indeed. He wanted to go home. He wanted to get to Erebor. He wanted to get back to bed.

_Saying the things you want won't make them true, you silly old Baggins_, his Took side snarked.

_At least it's conscious thought,_ his Baggins side snarled back._ I'd like to see you actually form a sentence before getting distracted by ale or women._

_Hey, I can-_

But the voice was drowned out forcibly by Bilbo, who'd rather not concentrate nor ponder the fact that he had two sides of his personality bickering in his head.

He took a shuddering breath, a shiver ripping through him as he let out a harsh cough from in his chest, something that rattled his whole frame and forced him to pause for a moment to collect himself again before he could trek onwards. Hacking into the crook of his arm, the force of it making him double over, Bilbo felt his vision swim dangerously. Sniffling, he straightened, swaying and trying desperately to stay on his feet.

He took another wavering breath. Okay, okay. To do list, modified: Find Thorin and the Company and get the hell out of Laketown.

Seemed like a pretty well thought out plan.

Shaking and wrapping his arms around his middle, Bilbo continued on through the throng of tall bodies and the twisty passage of docks. Left, right, right, left, left, right- Thorin? No.

Bofur- yes.

Unable to contain his relieved exhale nor the small noise that choked itself past his lips, Bilbo began trotting in earnest, unable to move faster but willing his body to fly, fly through the streets and past the crowds and over the maze of streets to his friend; he was faster than he had ever been before, throwing himself forward in a graceless clash of limbs and air and sobs and gasps-

It seemed to Bilbo that Bofur had a sixth sense that told him when his stout hobbit friend was in trouble because the dwarf turned suddenly, head whipping around faster than Bilbo had ever seen; it looked incredibly painful from where Bilbo was standing (running, running for Bofur, running for his life) and Bofur was almost assuredly going to regret such a fast movement later. He caught the little hobbit as he legitimately stumbled and crumpled into Bofur's awaiting arms (Bilbo would praise that sixth sense later) and cradling him, lowering both himself and the burglar to the ground as he did so.

"Bilbo?" Bofur asked, brows coming together and mouth curving downwards into a frown, almost as though the ends of his lips had suddenly been weighed down. "What are ye doin' here?!"

And Bilbo thought for a moment that perhaps Bofur was terribly angry and really wasn't relieved to see him at all.

"Shouldn't Ori be lookin' after ye? Keeping ye in bed? What are ye doin' here?!"

Bilbo didn't remember forming any words to say something, but he could hear the words that were, assumedly, coming out of his own mouth. "Looking for Thorin. Nice to see you too, by the way. Wonderful weather we're having."

The weather's actually quite cold, Bilbo corrected to himself in his head, a bubble of laughter suddenly inflating in his chest. Before he realized it, he was laughing a little hysterically, hiccuping puncturing the smoothness of it from where it caused his ribs to ache so bad they burned.

Bofur let out a small, unbelieving huff, the air misting in front of his mouth and the gentle breeze blowing Bilbo's curls away from his face for a moment. Bofur shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Oh, Bilbo," he murmured more to himself than the hobbit in his arms, "what are we gonna do with ye?"

Bilbo found himself replying again without his brain's consent. "You're going to take me to a mountain to burglarize a dragon," he reminded.

_Stop it,_ his Baggins side demanded. _This is no time to be clever_.

His Took side barked a laugh. _This is the perfect time to be clever._

Bilbo rolled his eyes, and Bofur replied with a small, breathy chuckle, "aye. We are doin' that." Then, more concerned and kindly, "can ye stand, Bilbo?"

Bilbo huffed, resisting the urge to cross his arms like a petulant child. Yes he could, thank you very much! "I walked all the way here, didn't I?" He snapped, and he released the responsibility of what he was saying to his mouth because his brain certainly wasn't forming the sentences. To prove his point, he pushed himself away from Bofur and stumbled upwards, out of his arms, regaining his footing. His knees wobbled, a sure warning sparking up his spine. His arm throbbed in what could only be insistence. "Come on," he said to Bofur, trying to sound more strong than he felt at the moment. The world tilted on its axis, sending the sights in front of him into a blurry swirl of color. He took a deep breath. "We have a King Under the Mountain to catch."

* * *

_How in Mahal's holy halls is Bilbo going to even walk like this?_ Bofur thought silently to himself, inspecting the Mad Baggins in front of him. Bilbo truly looked sickly, his face sweat slicked and his clothes looking wrinkled. His pants were torn in certain places, exposing the chilled and feverish skin to the freezing lake air. Gooseflesh was apparent on on his exposed skin- his neck, arms, and calves, seeing as the pants came to about the knee. The usually bouncing and well-kept curls were now plastered down the Bilbo's forehead, looking stringy and tangled. Bilbo's face was alabaster, his eyes far too bright.

Bofur could tell already that Bilbo's fever was once again treacherously high.

And now the hobbit wanted to go looking for Thorin like this? No. Absolutely not. Bofur may have been fun loving and determined, but there was a line between determination and suicide. Bilbo had long passed it and waded into murky water.

"No, Bilbo," Bofur said, crossing his arms and doing his best to look stern while reaching up to his head, plucking off his head, and placing it snugly around the messy curls (Mahal, he hoped it would at least ward off some of the cold). He undid the fastenings on his jacket, too, wrapping that around Bilbo's shoulders tightly. Bilbo accepted these with little protest, something that worried Bofur more than any other response would. The fussy little creature was always so adamant about them not going out of their way for him.

Bilbo eyebrows rose so far on his forehead, they almost disappeared into his hairline. "No?" He repeated, eyes wide and jaw slack. His mouth hung open. "No?!"

Bofur took a deep breath, praying that he didn't have a temper tantrum on his hands. Mahal knew Bilbo's resolve almost outdid Thorin's. "No. Ye heard me. You've gotta get back t' bed and I've gotta find Thorin- but ye have to rest, Bilbo. Mahal knows how sick y'are."

Bilbo's white cheeks gained a little color as Bilbo's temper sparked to life. Oh, dear. "But Bofur, we can't just-"

"I will find him, Bilbo," Bofur said firmly, stepping closer as he planned to just pick up Bilbo. He was light enough, anyway, and wouldn't thrash too much; he wouldn't want to hurt Bofur, surely. "We just gotta-"

His sentence completely broke, however, because Bilbo had just vanished into thin air.

* * *

The Ring always made everything look like the earth had been leached of all its bright and cheerful colors, bleaching to greys and whites and darkening to blacks. Bilbo had trouble swallowing the feeling that arose when the world decided to swirl; he couldn't really make out where he was going. He suddenly felt incredibly hot instead of cold, and wasn't sure if he was grateful that the cold had finally stopped or concerned about the fact that_ the cold had finally stopped._

Something cold and dark crawled into his chest, settling there uncomfortably and making it hard to breathe. What if Thorin hated him for sneaking away? What if Ori hated him for his trickery? Maybe Bofur would tell them all about his ring. The Ring…

Bofur knew about the Ring. Something akin to panic bubbled in the pit of his stomach, and something that stung like annoyance burned behind his eyes. What if Bofur decided to take the Ring? What if he told Thorin?

What if he told Gandalf?!

Bilbo didn't understand why, but he was very pertinacious about the fact that Gandalf should not know he had this magic ring. Not yet. Not until he was sure…

About what?

He tripped; stumbled; flew face first to the ground, scraping the palms of his hands and his partially exposed knees. When he looked down, they were sluggishly bleeding grey blood which leaked onto the deck below. Feeling his stomach roll, Bilbo looked away, deciding not to check his legs. He yanked himself to his feet, his resolve hardening even when his legs trembled. He felt like he was going to be sick again.

Lurching, Bilbo jerked his body forward, his limbs not quite wanting to obey his commands. His eyelids grew impossibly heavy, and his heachache increased somehow (how wasn't it already the worst?) He wanted...sleep…

He coughed; faltered. His eyelids drew themselves shut like window curtains but Bilbo dragged them back up to see where his still walking feet (aching, weary feet) continued to take him (miraculously without causing him to fall headfirst into the murky lake water).

When he opened his eyes he couldn't help his gasp, his eyes going wide as his mind went numb. It felt as though someone had just poured a bucket of ice water over his head and drenched him in it. He grasped the Ring and furiously pulled it off his finger, unable to contain the grin that split his lips so hard it was painful. "I found you!"

The last he saw was Thorin's dark, midnight blue irises, his face paling considerably before all was dark.

And Bilbo Baggins finally slept.

* * *

_**Well. There it is. Hope you enjoyed it and please, leave me a comment on your thoughts! Good, bad? Somewhere in between?**_

_**P.S. Kudos to anyone who understood the Doctor Who reference! :D Yes, I'm a Whovian. And A Sherlockian. And A Merlinian. And A...What's THE HOBBIT FANDOM NAME?!**_


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